


The Impossible Task

by Trexi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Draco Malfoy, BAMF Harry Potter, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, De-Aged Draco Malfoy, De-Aged Harry Potter, Gen, Harry Potter Has a Pet Snake, Harry and Draco are brothers, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Occlumency, Slytherin Harry Potter, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trexi/pseuds/Trexi
Summary: Draco Malfoy was set an impossible task. In his efforts to avoid it no matter the cost, he found himself accompanied by the only idiot impulsive enough to get in his way on a quest to kill Voldemort before the height of his power. (Multi-POV)





	1. You did this on purpose?

**HARRY**         

Malfoy’s up to something. Malfoy is _always_ up to something, but this time is so much worse. He’s been happy. Draco Malfoy, the most pompous git to ever git, has been sauntering through Hogwarts with an actual skip in his step. I told Hermione and Ron about this, of course, but they think I’m imagining things. Or to quote Hermione that ‘I should stop obsessing over Malfoy for once and focus on my studies.’ But I think that’s just Hermione being Hermione because I’ve been focussing plenty on Dumbledore’s lessons about Voldemort, even if they’re not what I expected when the Headmaster said he’d be personally tutoring me.

I’m meant to meet Dumbledore with my Invisibility Cloak right now, but I reckon I’ve got time to see what Malfoy’s up to when he’s finally not guarded by Crabbe and Goyle. Turns out putting sleeping potions into their desserts works just as well as it did second year. And I didn’t even need Hermione’s help to make these ones. As terrible an idea using the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook turned out to be, at least it improved my potion-making skills. I’m not sure what I would’ve done with the guilt if Malfoy hadn’t accepted my terrible excuse for an apology down in the Hospital Wing though.

I check the Marauders’ Map and grin at the sight of Malfoy pacing in some unused classroom in the dungeons. After weeks of trying to guess which version of the Room of Requirement Malfoy was using, I did the next best thing. I tipped off a bunch of seventh year Ravenclaws about the room, so they could explore the space in their final days at Hogwarts. I almost told Ron about it, but he would’ve said something about the idea being too Slytherin-like. Bet the twins would’ve approved though.

The dungeons are almost completely empty this time of day, only the odd pair of Slytherins strolling through the halls, none the wiser to a Gryffindor sneaking past under an Invisibility Cloak. I triple check the map to make sure that Snape’s not anywhere nearby, but the slimy git is thankfully in the staffroom with Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick. They must be having a Heads of House meeting or something. Fred and George have spied on plenty of those in their time at Hogwarts; I bet the Marauders probably did too. Wonder if Dad and Sirius would approve of me using some of my more Slytherin traits to catch a git like Malfoy. Not sure if Remus would tell the truth if I asked.

Malfoy’s using a classroom so deep into the dungeons that I’m not sure anybody else would find it if they didn’t either spend hours looking or have a map showing where everyone is in Hogwarts. The hall is clear of anything, even dust thanks to the house elves no doubt, so I shed my Invisibility Cloak and tuck it into my robes. I somehow doubt Malfoy isn’t going to notice me opening the door, no matter how quietly I try, and the cloak is just going to get in my way if I have to move quickly.

The sight that greets me half makes me want to back away slowly, close the door, and go straight to Dumbledore. But I wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. Malfoy stands a few feet into the room surrounded by dozens of golden white orbs that fill the classroom with an eerie sort of light. They’re spinning around him at a speed that could rival a snitch, somehow getting faster with every second. Malfoy notices me, slashes his wand down, and all the orbs turn black.

Most wizards’ first instinct in this kind of situation is to pull out their wand. Mine is to tackle the Slytherin to the ground.

“Don’t touch me!” Malfoy screams as we crash to the floor.

It’s the last thing I hear before everything goes dark.

*

The next time Hermione says that I’m the reason people attribute recklessness to Gryffindors, I’m not defending myself. I’ll even listen to her entire lecture the next time I see her. So long as she at least waits until Madam Pomphrey fixes whatever Malfoy has managed to do to us. I don’t even have to open my eyes to know he’s done _something_. Everything just feels … wrong, somehow. My body feels like it’s just gone through a bottle of Skele-Gro, and the main reason I don’t want to open my eyes is that I don’t want to be proven right about my current theory.

I feel smaller, physically weaker, and, I’m hoping this is some twisted nightmare and I’m currently lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing, because my instincts are practically screaming that I am also _younger._ I didn’t even know there was such thing as a de-aging spell before now, but I guess that’s what I get for tackling Malfoy when he’s casting a spell I don’t recognise. Despite what everyone in the Order of the Phoenix keeps telling me, I really wish my first instinct was still to cast _Expelliarmus_. Maybe if I just keep my eyes closed everything will go back to normal.

A weak groan from next to me makes the decision for me.

I reluctantly open my eyes to see a much younger Draco Malfoy clutching his head with his wand in hand.

“Tell me that was a nightmare spell,” I groan, checking my hands, and yep, they’re a lot smaller.

“What kind of wizard tackles someone?” Malfoy asks, his voice pitched higher than usual.

I stumble to my feet and glare down at Malfoy. “I think we have a bigger problem than my instincts here.”

The only reason I haven’t killed the git is because at least our robes have shrunk down with us, so I don’t trip as I yank him not too gently to his feet. Then again, of course Malfoy of all people would screw up with magic this badly and still manage to maintain his appearance, however younger he ends up. Malfoy rips his arm back from me and immediately sways. Oh, and it turns out the git’s nose is bleeding as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just passed out on the spot.

“What did you do to us, Malfoy?” I ask.

“Shut up, Potter. I’m trying to think, and the headache isn’t helping.”        

“We’re somehow younger, your nose is bleeding worse than a failed Weasley Wizards product, and you’re worried about a little headache?”  
Malfoy wipes his bloody nose. “Maybe if you hadn’t tackled me, I wouldn’t have a headache that feels like I’ve been in Binns’s class for the past 48 hours straight!”

“What about your nose?” I ask, watching Malfoy stop the bleeding with a muttered spell and a wince. “I didn’t realise I’d hit it,” I say, which would probably sound more like an apology if it weren’t me saying it, and if it weren’t Malfoy I was saying it to.

The prefect glares at me. “That was the spell. An expected consequence all things considered.”

“What kind of dark magic inflicts wounds on the caster?”

“It wasn’t dark magic, you ignorant Gryffindor! It was an extremely powerful spell to transport-.”

“Transport?” I question, finally looking around the room, which is decidedly not the dungeons.

There are trunks everywhere, stacked against the wall, on the couches, next to the coffee table with a lone copy of the Daily Prophet on it, and blocking any sight of a door or window. The trunks are expensive looking ones as well, and for some reason, my trunk is sitting behind me, the odd one out. Before I can question that particular detail, Malfoy opens his stupid mouth.

“ _Obviously._ What with us not being in the classroom anymore. I swear, if those seventh years hadn’t decided to use the Room of Requirement the moment I needed to cast my spell-.”

“Take us back to Hogwarts right now,” I demand.

Malfoy levels his wand at me. Mine’s still in my robes.

“Or you’ll what, Potter? Keep cutting me off? Tackle me again? Throw a punch like your Mudblood friend did in third year? You take one step towards me, and I’ll have you petrified and jammed in a closet within five seconds.”

“I’ll wait for Dumbledore then. I was on my way to meet him, so I’m sure he’s already wondering where I’ve ended up.”

Malfoy laughs. “Potter, you have no idea what you’ve stumbled into this time.”

“What are you talking about? All of this,” I gesture to us and the room filled with trunks, “this is just some illusion that you’ve crafted.”

“The flat’s no illusion and-.”

“You’re not convincing me that we’ve suddenly been hit by some weird de-aging curse, Malfoy. I’m not that stupid.”

Even if that was my first thought.

“You admit you’re stupid then?” Malfoy asks.

I throw my hands into the air. “Would you just tell me what’s going on, you stupid git?”  

Malfoy rolls his eyes and levitates the newspaper from the coffee table to my hands. I reluctantly drop them, so I can look at it.

“August 1st, 1971,” I read aloud. “Why do you have a copy of the Daily Prophet from 27 years ago?”

Malfoy glares at me. “I don’t know, Potter, _maybe_ because my spell was meant to take me and my chosen companion back to this point in time. Or maybe I have an almost thirty-year-old copy of the Daily Prophet lying around in a random flat in Muggle London just to confuse idiotic Gryffindors who interrupt my painstakingly crafted spell!”

 I stare at the newspaper like it’ll suddenly become a portkey and take us back to that classroom. “Are we…?” I glance up at Malfoy. “Is this today’s paper?”

“Finally caught onto the obvious then, Potter?” Malfoy snaps.

His baby face is as bad as it was in first year. And I haven’t been this skinny since before Hogwarts. Yet that would mean… That can’t mean…

“But why are we eleven?” I ask.

Malfoy yanks up his sleeve. “One, I didn’t fancy walking around with the Dark Mark on my arm while trying to kill the Dark Lord. Two, the best time to infiltrate a wizarding school is from the first year.”

I feel like I should question why Malfoy wants to kill Voldemort, but there are more urgent problems to address.

“You did this on purpose?” I question. “You really were spending all that time sneaking around this year making some time travelling spell?” I don’t know whether to try punching him or to demand answers. “Who’d you even want to bring with you?”

And why wasn’t anyone else in that room with him if the spell was designed to bring someone along. Unless… Unless Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin House, couldn’t find anyone who’d join him on an insane quest.

“Well, you’re not the first person I would’ve chosen, but I suppose you do have more knowledge and experience about fighting the Dark Lord than I.”

“We can’t just go around messing with time, Malfoy!”

“I know the risks.”

I cross my arms, missing the muscles built from years of Quidditch. “Really? So you know that if we change anything, anything at all, that prevents the two of us from being in that classroom together over twenty years from now, then it’ll create a paradox?”

“It won’t.”

I throw up my arms. “That’s not how time travel works, you conceited prick.”

“Speaking from experience, Potter?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Third year, Hermione had a time-turner to fit her ridiculous schedule. We used it to save Sirius and Buckbeak.”

Malfoy scowls. “Oh, so it’s alright for the Golden Trio to mess with time to save a Blood Traitor and a beast, but when I want to do it to kill the bastard that ruined both our lives before he gets the chance, it’s time to worry about paradoxes.”

“We went back two hours! We didn’t interfere with our past selves, we didn’t stop anyone from dying who already had, _and_ we had express permission from Dumbledore. We arrived back just in time for us to disappear in the first place.”

“Good thing I didn’t use a time-turner then.”

I roll my eyes. “Like that makes a difference.”

“Did you or did you not notice all our possessions surrounding us? You certainly can’t do that with a pathetic time-turner. I’ve been refining the set of spells ever since the Dark Lord gave me my mission.”

“To kill Dumbledore,” I say flatly.

“Yes, Potter, to kill your precious Dumbledore. Obviously,” Draco gestures around us, “I chose a different impossible task instead.”

“You mean, you’ve spent all year trying to put yourself into the body of your eleven-year-old self and sent yourself back to the year that my parents started at Hogwarts?”

Malfoy glares. “I was _aiming_ for the year that Severus started. Hardly my fault that they went to school together.”

“Why Snape?”

“I’ll be sure to tell you all about my plan once you agree to help instead of trying to keep time the way it was before.”

I scoff. “You want _my_ help?”

“Like I said before, Potter. You’re the most experienced with beating the Dark Lord.”

“Tom Riddle.”

“What?”

“That’s his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not the Dark Lord or Voldemort or the Heir of Slytherin even. Tom Son of a Muggle Riddle. Junior. Named after his Muggle father and everything. Mother was a Gaunt that died soon after he was born. Raised in a Muggle orphanage, tormented the other kids for years, and made his first Horcrux when he was sixteen.”

Malfoy pales. “How do you know all of that?”

“Dumbledore. He’s been giving me private lessons all year.” I step forward. “Now, you better have a damn good explanation on why changing the past would actually work. Trust me, Malfoy, I have people I want saved too, but I’m not about to risk the people I love, who are still alive in our time, on some barely-thought-out plan made in desperation.”

“I thought Gryffindors make all their plans that way.”

“Not the ones that could kill us all. Those are always thought out weeks in advance.”

He smirks. “Potter, I’ve been planning this since your last ‘thought-out’ plan got my father thrown into Azkaban.”

Malfoy promptly passes out.

*

It takes me twenty minutes of moving past the stacks of trunks, and towers of galleons, sickles, and knuts that were apparently hidden behind the trunks, to explore the entire flat. I consider the large beds in the two bedrooms for all of three seconds before deciding it was too much effort having to move the trunks off the couch and moving the unconscious Malfoy onto it, to now move him to a bed. Maybe next time the git can pass out from magical exhaustion when I can actually use my wand without the trace going off. It’s still a month until I’ve seventeen, despite Malfoy’s stupid spell.

If he got away with using magic without a Ministry owl sent our way, then that must mean that our magical ages aren’t affected by the physical de-aging. Hermione would be proud of me figuring that out on my own. But it’s not like I’m going to be able to tell her anytime soon. While I’m all for hearing Malfoy’s plan to deal with Voldemort before he reaches his height of power, I would’ve preferred bringing along Ron and Hermione for the job. Fighting Riddle isn’t the same without them being with me every step of the way. Malfoy’s probably got a way for us to duck back to 1997 and grab some extra help, right?

I doubt Malfoy of all people would let this be a one-way trip. He’s the ultimate Slytherin, aside from maybe Snape. Malfoy will have an emergency way out. He will.

There’s not much else to the rest of the flat: one bathroom, a kitchen that seems to have even more towers of galleons, and the living room that Malfoy’s passed out in. I consider making a proper walkway through the trunks, but if Malfoy really wants me to stop climbing his trunks, and jumping from the tops of them, then he can move them himself. Those things would be heavy to me at my proper age. At eleven, I can barely make my own trunk budge, and I know it’s overfilled. Malfoy’s probably got expansion charms on the inside of his, which just makes me wonder more why he has so many. And why there can’t be feather-light charms on them as well.

I glare at the trunks on the second couch with the hope that the longer I stare, the more likely I’ll suddenly be able to perform wandless magic and move them. After a solid two minutes of glaring, I sigh, and flop onto the spare space next to Malfoy’s feet on the cleared couch, Daily Prophet in hand. If we’re going to be in this time for a while, it’s probably best I know what’s been happening in the Wizarding World. History of Magic never did cover more recent events, not that I remember much from that class.

The first thing I realise is that even before Rita Skeeter was a reporter, the Daily Prophet is incapable of accurately printing proper stories unless they’re riddled with lies, scandals, and scandals with lies. I’m also pretty sure half the names are incorrect unless the person’s rich and/or important enough, but the only names I recognise are the parents of my classmates, or more likely, their grandparents. There’s an interview three pages in with Walburga Black that makes me cringe at how sure she is that the Heir to House Black will be sorted into Slytherin in the coming September.

Sirius is alive. So are my mum and dad. They’re alive and eleven and about to enter Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s plan sounds like we’ll be entering alongside them, and I’m going to meet my parents at age eleven, but they aren’t my parents yet. They haven’t even met yet, and according to Snape’s memories, they don’t even like each other for years. Snape and my mum are still friends. I’m going to meet a young Snape, and if I want to get to know my mum, then I’m going to have to be _nice_ to a young Snape.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s plan somehow sounds both completely insane and like the best thing ever at the same time.

But what if I have to trade my life in the 90s for this? What if that’s the price for coming here and stopping Riddle early? What-?

No. Malfoy will have a plan for that. He will. We can save them and be fine, someway, somehow. Everything’s going to be fine. If I have to work alongside Malfoy for that to happen, then so be it. It’s not like we’re agreeing to be friends or anything ridiculous like that. I’ll hear Malfoy’s plan once he wakes up, and whatever it is, he’ll have a way for us to go back in the end. So what if along the way to defeating Riddle, I take advantage of this opportunity to spend time with a younger version of my parents, Sirius, and Remus?

It’s going to be so much fun teasing the older werewolf about the eleven-year-old him. It’ll be some big joke once we get back. It’s going to be fine.

Malfoy lurches up and has his wand to my throat before I can so much as put the newspaper down.

“Nice nap?” I ask sarcastically. “Ready to tell me your brilliant plan to defeat your Dark Lord?”

Malfoy glares at me for a moment and then lowers his wand. “Thanks for moving me, I guess,” he mutters, sitting up properly and leaning against the opposite armrest. “As for my plan, it’s certainly going be easier now.”

“Because I actually know some of Riddle’s secrets?”

“It’ll certainly save me having to infiltrate his future inner circle from within Hogwarts. Not to say it’ll make our task any easier.”

“And what exactly did you want us to do in 1971?”

“Infiltrate Hogwarts from the first year, prevent the powerful outcasts from joining the Death Eaters by encouraging inter-house unity-.”

I burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, what? _You_ want to encourage inter-house unity? The same Draco Malfoy who scoffed at the thought of being in literally any house but Slytherin, wants to promote unity between the houses? And how on Earth are you going to manage that?”

“I never said it’d be easy, Potter! But like most things in life, it doesn’t matter how difficult a task is if it’s important enough. You do whatever it takes to get it done. If that means making nice to a bunch of Gryffindors then so be it.”

“And the other two houses? Not sure if you noticed, what with you mostly targeting the lions, but there are four houses in Hogwarts.”

Malfoy scoffs. “I’ve made plenty of alliances within Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff in my years of tormenting you. Hufflepuffs are wonderfully vicious when protecting their own, and Ravenclaws make excellent study partners, like when I was trying to figure out the complex charms needed for those badges I made in fourth year.”

“Sorry I misjudged how far you were willing to go in your hatred for all things me.”

“Please, I don’t hate you, Potter. Dislike you, absolutely. But hate you? No. I reserve my hatred for far more deserving targets. Like Riddle, or my aunt Bellatrix, or Dumbledore using his political status to erase wizarding traditions because they’re ‘too complex’ or ‘outdated’ for the poor Muggleborns.” Malfoy stands up and starts levitating the trunks around before I can even begin to respond. “How many rooms did the trunks fill, anyway?” he asks.

“Just this one and the hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom. The kitchen’s practically overflowing with galleons though.”

“That’ll be my trust fund.”

I stumble while getting up at his nonchalance. “And the rest of the money?”

“Oh, bits and pieces that I’ve been squirrelling away since Riddle returned at the end of fourth year. Mother helped. She kept it secret from Father of course.”

“Of course,” I mumble.

Malfoy frowns. “I’m not sure I see the rest of your belongings. It’s just your school trunk by the looks of it. Maybe the spell didn’t work properly thanks to you tackling me right when it was meant to go off.”

I studiously avoid eye contact while putting the Daily Prophet back onto the coffee table. “It worked fine,” I say.

“These are all your possessions then? The Potter fortune might help a little, but the only other thing here is your trunk. I would’ve thought the Boy-Who-Lived had more.”

I feel my face burning red. “I inherited 12 Grimmauld Place, but I somehow doubt your stupid spell would bring an entire house too, especially one that already exists in this time.”

Malfoy waves that off. “It was meant to copy everything, not transport, so it wouldn’t matter if something already existed here. Unless the Black London House was placed under a Fidelius Charm, and you weren’t the Secret Keeper.” Malfoy raises an eyebrow at my awkward shuffling. “Why aren’t you the Secret Keeper for your own house?”

“It was being used as a Headquarters when Sirius was still…”

“Then when he died, it should’ve made you all-.” Malfoy takes a deep breath. “That idiot Dumbledore was the Secret Keeper, wasn’t he?”

I shrug. “Well, yeah.”

“To _your_ house?”

“Not like I got to live there.”

“Not like you got to live there,” Malfoy repeats dryly. “Why the bloody hell not? Where else would you have lived?”

“Same place I always have. My aunt and uncle’s.”

“But James Potter didn’t have any-.”

“My mum’s sister.”

“You’re a half-blood.”

“Yeah.”

Malfoy takes a step back, looking like he wants to scream. “The Boy-Who-Lived, Dumbledore’s Golden Child, and the Heir to both the Potters and the Blacks, was raised by Muggles?”

Screw it. We’re going to have to work together. I might as well be honest.

“I wouldn’t say raised, more tolerated barely and mostly treated like a house elf…”

At this Malfoy twitches violently.

“But yeah, I’ve lived with my aunt, uncle, and cousin for as long as I can remember.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to complete that first task after all.”

“Didn’t know you had a heart,” I mutter.

Malfoy points his wand at me. “I am more a rightful blood Heir of the Black House than you will ever be, Potter. To hear that the heir of not just one of my families, but another ancient line of purebloods was raised by Muggles, is like spitting on the graves of both our ancestors.”

“Now’s probably not the best time to mention that I didn’t even hear about magic until I got my owl, and even then, that I didn’t know I was a wizard until Hagrid showed up ‘cause nobody would let me read my letter.”

Malfoy looks like he’s building up for a rant. It’s pretty much instinct at this point to keep pushing.

“Also, that my aunt always told me that my parents died in an accident, and I had no idea about how much money I inherited until my eleventh birthday.”

Something in him snaps. “That was the day we met,” he says quietly.

“You reminded me of my cousin: a spoilt bully.”

“And now?”

I glance around us, at the surprisingly modest flat in the middle of Muggle London. “You’d do anything for your family. Guess you’ve always been like that, just a little hard to notice over all the ‘my father will hear about this.’”

“Sometimes you have to save your family from themselves.”

“Why didn’t you take us earlier then, to when they started?”

Malfoy sighs. “Because I think no matter what I do, they’ll always think the same way they were raised to. At least from this time, we’ll be able to influence the greatest number of key players without letting someone else take the place of Riddle as Head Death Eater.”

“How are we going to manage that if you still think the same way?” I snap. “You’ve been calling Sirius a Blood Traitor this entire time. Still think Hermione’s a Mudblood and that you’re so much better for having magical ancestors? Because if we really do this, if we go to Hogwarts the same year as _my_ family, and you even think about calling my mum a Mudblood, I am going to do a hell of lot worse to you than throw around an unknown curse.”

“I’m _trying_! Okay? Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to undo years of being raised to think and speak this way? I’m never not going to be passionate about preserving wizarding traditions. I’m never not going to be frustrated when _Muggleborns_ come into our world without a clue about our culture and zero willingness try to understand it, instead assuming the Muggle way is always better. I’m never not going to believe that growing up around magic gives you an advantage when you _start_ at Hogwarts.

“But I’m willing to help bridge the gap. I’m willing to make sure there’s a Wizarding Studies class for Muggle-raised witches and wizards while we do Muggle Studies. I’m willing to accept that blood purity is more about money and class than magical ability. I’m willing to compromise some of my beliefs, so long as they’re compromising too. I _have_ been thinking about this for a long time, Potter, not just the spell needed to get here, but what kind of changes need to happen once we did. At this point, I’m pretty sure killing Dumbledore would’ve been easier, and we haven’t really started yet.”

He’s not wrong. Things are always easier when Malfoy’s wrong.

I rub the bride of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“You promise we’re protected from the changes?”

“I’m not an idiot, Potter. If I said ourselves and our possessions are time-locked, then they are.”

“Just make the damn promise, Malfoy.”

He scowls. “Fine! I promise we’re protected from the changes.”

“What happens when we’re born?”

“What?”

I take a deep breath. “When we’re born, Malfoy. Don’t know if you remember, but the war didn’t exactly end until we were one.”

“Well, obviously we’ll end it before then, you idiot.”

“And then what?”

“Just ask what you want to ask!”

“What are we doing when this is over, Malfoy? I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy sticking around while another version of Harry Potter is born and raised by his loving, alive parents, nor do I fancy heading back to our time and not having any clue what’s been happening for the past sixteen years.”

Malfoy shrinks in on himself. It’s an odd sight, something so like the bathroom incident, yet somehow worse in his eleven-year-old self. “I don’t know how to do the spell the other way around,” he mumbles.

Every thought about going home goes straight down the drain. Something in my gut lurches, as Malfoy slams the door shut on all of my hope.

“What?” I ask, my voice weak.

“I can’t reverse it, Potter! Maybe as a bloody thank you for everything we sacrificed, your precious Dumbledore will help us out. How about we focus on killing that Riddle bastard first, and then the old man will be in our debt?”

I don’t punch Malfoy, as tempting as it is. Instead, another thought hits me.

“This will mean that everything we’ve ever done won’t happen, won’t it? If we kill him, if we save both our families, everything we’ve gone through won’t have happened. We’ll remember it, but nobody else will, will they?” I ask.

“I’m sure Dumbledore would erase our memories if we asked nicely enough.”

“No!” I shout. “Sure, I’ve been through hell and back, but I’d never ask to have all that stolen from me. That’d be the same as killing everyone, including ourselves, from our time. If we don’t remember what happened, they might as well have never existed.”

“But that’s the point, Potter. None of that should have happened if someone had just killed Riddle properly in the first place.”

“I want to remember.”

“You want to remember all the pain you’ve gone through?”

“I want to remember continuing to fight despite of it.”


	2. We're technically both Blacks

**DRACO**

There are three things Hogwarts teaches its students about magical exhaustion. One, no spell, no matter how powerful, can kill its caster through sheer magical exhaustion. The spell will simply not work instead of completely draining the caster’s magical reserves. Two, no student at Hogwarts has ever successfully cast a single spell that has drained the entirety of their magical reserves. Many have tried by combining multiple particularly powerful spells, but ultimately were unable to cast the result. Three, curing magical exhaustion is as simple as sleeping and eating a lot. For some reason, no Professor has ever told their students that continuing to cast magic after one has already reached their limits is quite possibly the worst idea since whoever said that twelve-year-olds should choose the electives that will take them through to NEWT levels.

As it happens, I managed to prove the second and third thing incorrect, all while learning the unspoken fourth the hard way.

Suffice to say, my dizzy spells have returned, and I’m not sure if I should worry more about them, or the fact that Harry Potter has taken to acting like a miniature Madam Pomphrey in all his fussing to make sure I stop casting magic. He _might_ have a point that it isn’t strictly necessary for me to levitate an apple into my hand when I could simply grab it from my open fruit trunk, which is obviously laden with half a dozen preservation charms. But if I start admitting that Potter has a point now, he might see that as an opportunity to spout more of his nonsense about me relying too much on magic.

At least my first reaction to someone casting an unknown spell isn’t to tackle them.

“I still don’t understand why you have a trunk that’s just filled with apples,” Potter mutters, passing me another box of tissues.

I shrug, well, as much as one can shrug when he’s lying on a lounge that seemed stylistic when I chose it, but now turns out to be plain uncomfortable when I’m recovering from a severe case of magical exhaustion. It’s not like I can even transfigure it into something better because Potter, in all his infinite wisdom, has stolen my wand. On a normal day, I might simply try my hand at wandless magic. Except if the last twenty-four hours have proven anything, it’s that my magic isn’t obeying most of what they taught us, and as such, overtaxing my magic in such a careless way, just might kill me.

And I’m not about to leave Potter alone in 1971 to kill the Dark- Vo- Riddle! Riddle, to kill Riddle. Knowing the Gryffindor, he’ll just end up throwing the idea of proper time travel, not that blasphemously restricted time-turner rubbish, in Riddle’s face. Speaking of, I better make sure the idiot has some semblance of Occlumency shields before we leave the flat, even if I have to overtax my magical reserves _again_ and attempt to stretch mine. Merlin, I did not sign up for this nonsense. Why couldn’t I have gotten a competent partner?

Oh, right, because when I needed them most, it turned out that Draco Malfoy doesn’t have any loyal friends, and certainly not the kind who’d risk everything on a plan as high-stakes as this one. I’m quite sure that the only reason Potter is still going along with it is because he’s practically been conditioned from the moment he stepped foot back into the Wizarding World that he is a Saviour whose one job was to defeat Riddle. And surprising absolutely everyone, for some reason beyond logic, a one-year-old baby didn’t manage to do that right the first time around.

“I think I can manage sitting up just fine,” I say, moving into an upright position before Potter can navigate his way past the trunks to stop me.

Well, I say navigate, but really, Potter just looks like a deranged Niffler, scaling anything that’s between him and his goal without any care for how much the trunks shake and almost fall down. The only reason I don’t say as much is because if Potter suddenly decides that I’m too much trouble to work with, then I’ll be left alone with this task. Or worse, Potter could involve Dumbledore or someone equally intolerable as some sort of mediator. Then I’d be constrained to whatever they thought was the ‘right’ way to go about this, which I guarantee involves stopping far fewer people from becoming Death Eaters than my plan calls for.

“You’re meant to rest, Malfoy.”

“There’ll be time to rest once we’ve gotten everything important sorted out first, like our identities in this time, and our respective tasks once we get to Hogwarts. The goblins should be able to help us with the first part, but it’s best that we give them something to work with.”

“You mean you haven’t figured everything out yet?” Potter asks.

I glare at him. “ _Obviously_ , some of my plans will have to change with the addition of you being here. We’ll need a reason for knowing each other and seeming to trust only the other with certain information, yet still have a reason to not get along perfectly, because I don’t trust your acting skills.”

“Right,” Potter scoffs. “Not at all because you’re incapable of even thinking neutral thoughts about me.”

“Get over yourself, Potter. I already told you that I don’t hate you. How much more do you want from me?”

Potter sits down on the coffee table, and my hand twitches towards a wand that isn’t there.

“What about this flat then?” Potter asks. “I’m guessing you owned it back in our time if your spell put us here.”

I shrug. “It was a coming-of-age gift from Mother. She said I could have any place I wanted. I think she was hoping for me to choose somewhere in Chile or New Zealand, as long as it was as far away from the war as possible.”

“But you chose Muggle London?”

“No Death Eater would’ve thought to look for me here, and I was already close to completing the spell. I knew I’d need somewhere in London to stay, for convenience’s sake, so I chose here.”

Potter seems to think about that, though how he feels about my determination to end Riddle, I’m not sure. He seems to have gone along with that part of everything without a problem. Maybe the Boy-Who-Lived just thinks everyone should hate Riddle, and when it turns out that someone who took the Dark Mark not one year ago wants to kill his sworn master, then Potter’s not surprised at all. That, or he’s still overwhelmed at being sent back in time this far. I know I’d be terrified in his position, and I was, back when I started this plan, but now that we’re actually here, and the most difficult magical element is over, I just want to get started.

Once I’m sure Potter isn’t going to blow our cover the second we step outside of course.

“It’ll be easiest if we work your identity off the one I already had worked out for myself,” I say, and at Potter’s nod, continue. “We’re technically both Blacks. I have as much right to the name as I do to the name Malfoy, and you’ve ended up one by being named Sirius Black’s heir. The family has enough offshoots that nobody would be surprised at another two Blacks coming out of the woodworks.”

I pause for a moment, coming up with the adapted cover as I go, not that Potter needs to know that.

“It’s for the best that we pose as brothers,” I say. “You’d be adopted, of course, as it’ll give us reason to know each other for as long as we have, and it’ll give you a reason to not be able to rattle off our exact relations to the main line. The story should be simple enough that even you can wrap your head around it, with enough references to real events between the two of us that you can always fall back on those if you somehow manage to screw up.”

“You realise that if we’re going to act like brothers, then you’re going to have to learn to be a little nicer to me, right?” Potter asks, and it takes me a moment to realise that the idiot’s actually being serious.

I hold back a laugh. “It’s not as if any siblings in the Black family have ever gotten along in the past. My aunts tried to kill each other several times, and I know for a fact that Cousins Sirius and Regulas had a feud all the way through their time at Hogwarts. I suppose it would’ve lasted longer if Regulas hadn’t died so young. We’ll be stopping that from happening, of course.”

“What if we focus on getting rid of Sirius’s prejudice against Slytherins?” Potter asks, finally showing some semblance of a brain behind that thick skull of his. “I mean, they’re both from the main Black family line, right? And the Blacks are super important in the Wizarding World, so if they’re sorted into opposite houses and still get along…”

“Then our task of promoting inter-house unity will be that much easier.” I reassess Potter. “Perhaps you will be more useful than expected.”

The half-blood scowls and folds his arms. “You’d only know the bare minimum about Riddle if it weren’t for me.”

“Yes, but I am capable of research without directing a lackey to do it for me, and I would’ve found out eventually. I originally planned to have a partner of sorts going through this with me, so I didn’t go insane from being the sole person with the knowledge of what’s going to happen.”

“And then it turns out that Malfoys don’t have real friends?” Potter snarks.

He’ll never get me to admit how close to the truth he is.

I shrug his comment off. “Most of my friends had already fled Britain the moment word was sent out that Dumbledore would’ve been killed that night.”

All of them except Pansy, in fact, but she still thought I was a loyal Death Eater, and there was no way I’d risk the speed of her gossiping prowess against my ability to finish crafting an extremely complex spell on the chance that she didn’t react favourably to the truth. I would’ve been dead within three hours max if she decided her loyalty to me wasn’t worth that much after all.

“That night?” Potter questions, paling. “Cutting it a little too close there, Malfoy?”

I roll my eyes. “Please, a dramatic exit is practically Black Family Tradition. We never did work out who destroyed the most family artefacts the day they were disowned out of Aunt Andromeda and Cousin Sirius.”

Potter laughs, genuinely laughs. It’s odd being the cause of that from something I said, rather than being turned into a ferret by a Death Eater. An event that, if Potter so much as thinks about bringing up, will get him sent to a time before the Statue of Secrecy so quickly, he won’t even be able to get the words out of his mouth before the Muggles he cherishes so much try to burn him for having magic.           

“What’s set you off?” I ask, thoroughly annoyed at not knowing what would possibly make Potter sound so cheerful.

“After Sirius died,” and that isn’t at all what I thought he’d start the sentence with, “I completely trashed Dumbledore’s office. I’ve no clue how many priceless artefacts I managed to destroy in my rampage, but there Dumbledore was, acting like I was meant to _understand_ the sacrifices of war right after I lost one of the last connections to my parents, so I destroyed as many of his precious things as I could manage before I ran out of steam.”

I smile. “Perhaps you will fit in as a Black after all.”

“Does this mean we’ll have to call each other by our first names in public? Not sure I could ever get used to referring to you as _Draco_.”

“It’ll certainly make a better cover. I don’t see why we can’t call each other by our last names occasionally as well, seeing as we can claim they’re nicknames based off an inside joke. We so obviously look like a Malfoy and a Potter respectively, so we should be able to get away with it.”

“So what’s this cover story, anyway?” Potter asks.

“We’ll be Draco and Harry Black. My mother adopted you out of pity six years ago because she couldn’t stand to see her cousin’s godson having to live with Muggles after his parents were killed at age one. Obviously, your godfather couldn’t take you in himself because he had been disowned by the Blacks and barely had enough galleons to support himself, let alone a child. He was killed a year ago by my estranged aunt. It’s all quite tragic, and fairly typical of the Black family. Thankfully, our name is so widely spread that we can easily claim to be from an offshoot branch of the family, and nobody will be able to refute the claim as the family magic will easily accept us.”

“And what about your mother?” Potter asks. “Where is she in all of this, and what’s she do?”

“She’s an Unspeakable who works closely with Ministries from around the world, particularly the Americas, and as such, she’s away from home often. We’ll say that my father isn’t in the picture after he almost squandered our fortune away on gambling, which is accurate if you consider throwing your family’s lives in with a Dark Lord as high-stakes gambling.”

Potter looks confused, well, more confused than usual. “Was Mrs Malfoy actually an Unspeakable, or are you just making up the best excuse for our mum being away?”

“Yes, you imbecile, she actually was. What did you think the Head Girl of her year, top of all her classes, and star Chaser of the Slytherin Quidditch Team did all day? Sit around drinking tea with other Death Eater wives? My mother was the only Black close to the main line left that hadn’t been disowned, thrown into prison, or both. She had a reputation to uphold, despite all Father did to drag his family name through the mud.”

Whatever Potter opens his mouth to say, he must realise better and promptly shuts it.

I continue. “In any case, if you find it difficult to remember any of the story, merely rely on the truth, and I shall do my best to weave it into our background.”

The very first thing Mother taught me was to lie, after all. It was right after Father’s first lesson of always tell him the truth. This was all before I had spoken my first word of course. I’m not entirely sure that they knew that at the time. Mother assures me otherwise, but I’ve become adept at recognising her guilt regarding my childhood. Travelling so much did leave me in the not-very-capable hands of Father and a handful of house elves. Thank Merlin nobody let the latter teach me how to speak. That would’ve been utterly embarrassing.

“I’m not actually an idiot, you know,” Potter says, as if he regularly feels the need to remind people that.

I eye him sceptically. “I _suppose_ that regularly spending time with Granger would make you seem … less intelligent in comparison to her, and therefore your intelligence levels would appear lower than they are.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Though one would think that being around the Weasel would balance that out.”

Potter frowns. “Ron is actually smart. He’s a genius when it comes to chess, and he knows way more about the Wizarding World than ‘Mione and I ever could.”

“That’s because he’s a pureblood, Potter. Anyone raised in our world would obviously know more about it. After all, it’s not like Hogwarts bothers to teach more than the bare basics about our culture and traditions.”

“Why is that?”

I scowl. “Ask the pathetic excuse for a Headmaster. He’s the one who started ruining things at Hogwarts.”

“You can’t blame everything on Dumbledore,” Potter huffs.

The man knew I was given the task to kill him, and all he did was send my godfather to help. Severus, a man who had already sworn an Unbreakable Vow to Mother to protect me. I have _every_ right to blame Dumbledore for whatever I please, because that selfish old man, who is meant to look out for all his students, has done nothing for me in my almost six years at Hogwarts. He knew the day that I was forced into taking the Dark Mark, and where was he then? Strategizing over how to use his students, children, in a war they had no place fighting in.

“Tell me this, Potter, why is it that Riddle had to be defeated by a child? What, exactly, was stopping your precious Dumbledore from simply killing Riddle before he ever stepped foot into Godric’s Hollow?”

“Well, because of the horcruxes, of course,” Potter answers.

I’m quite sure my heart stops beating for a moment.

“The _what_?” I ask, breath catching on something lodged in my throat; dread, probably.

“Riddle made a bunch of horcruxes, and he can’t die until they’re destroyed.”

“Tell me everything,” I demand, as much I can with ice-like dread spreading through my veins and chilling me to the core.

Potter hesitates for a moment, looking almost as if he’s worried I might pass out again, but he must realise how essential it is for us to be on the same page because he starts telling me everything he knows about Tom Marvolo Riddle and his six horcruxes. Six. I lurch to my feet and stumble through the flat to the bathroom when Potter says that number. Six. I empty the meagre contents of my stomach into the toilet. Six. I whimper at the magnitude of it all.

I just wanted to protect my family.

“Malfoy?” Potter calls from the other side of the bathroom door. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m feeling just _brilliant_ ,” I answer. “Not like my heart might just give out from sheer terror at all.”

“You’re not in this alone, you know. I’m going to be right alongside you for all of it.”

“Like that’s going to comfort me,” I snap. “You’ve managed to do what? Destroy one horcrux before? We’re going to have to find it all over again and redestroy it. It’s not even like you know what Riddle has for all s-,” I choke back a sob, “six bloody horcruxes. I already thought this was a Morgana-damned impossible task, but horcruxes? How in Merlin’s name are we going to defeat him? Undermining his power through his Death Eaters is one thing, but hunting down and destroying six bloody horcruxes? That’s going to take years, Potter. And who knows how much longer if Riddle catches onto what we’re doing and starts making more?”

Potter doesn’t seem to have an answer for that. For a moment, I almost think that he’s left, not just his position on the other side of the door, but that he’s actually managed to have an ounce of reasonable thought, grabbed his belongings and left the flat, left this impossible, impossible task. I don’t think I have it in me to begrudge him that. It’s not like he made the choice to come with me after all. It was just a stupid accident that got him involved. Anyone with any ounce of self-preservation would run as far from here and Riddle as possible. But then Potter opens the door, and I remember just which self-sacrificial idiot I’m dealing with.

He grimaces at the sight of me and passes me my wand. I gratefully take it and banish the mess, casting a breath-freshening charm while I’m at it.

“So what?” Potter murmurs so quietly that I’m not sure I’m meant to hear him until I see his determined expression. “So what if Riddle has even more of an advantage than expected? Does that really change what he’s going to do if we don’t stop him? I’m all for forcing Dumbledore’s hand and making him deal with Riddle himself, but how can we even be sure that he will? You’re right that he didn’t do nearly as much as he could’ve. Guess that’s what happens when someone has dozens of obligations on top of being the Wizarding World’s best hope against Dark Lords.

“But does that really mean we should just give up? That we should let Riddle tear our families apart? That we should step aside even though we have the most knowledge about how to defeat him? You’re really going to throw away all that effort on being the first to invent a time-travel spell that outperforms any time-turner? And here I thought that Slytherins were all about ambition and achieving greatness. I had no idea that meant throwing away all that energy over some ‘insurmountable’ hurdle. It’s not even impossible to beat Riddle. Sure, it’ll take _years_ , and it’ll hardly be a walk in the park, but it’s not impossible. If beating Riddle truly was impossible, he wouldn’t still be terrified of death twenty-six years from now.”

And really, how am I meant to respond to that?

“How is it that someone who so obviously practises speeches in the mirror, can then walk around with hair like that?” I ask. “Are you truly that blind, Potter, or is the bird’s nest some sort of bizarre fashion statement?”

Potter smiles with something that might be relief, if it weren’t directed at me.

“Are you feeling a little better?” he asks.

I stumble to my feet. “I _suppose_ your little inspirational speech was at least somewhat effective. It doesn’t change the fact of the matter though. It’ll be an actual miracle if we manage to pull this off, Potter, and that’s not even counting dealing with seven additional years at Hogwarts. I swear, if I catch you slacking off when you could be contributing to our task, or making yourself stronger, then you’ll be facing the same single-minded determination that had Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle passing every single one of their exams at Hogwarts.”

“I take it that you’re ready to hear the rest of it, then?” Potter asks.

I stagger past him on my way to the kitchen. “Hurry up, then. I’m going to need something more substantial than apples if I’m going to recover my magical reserves by morning.”

“Do you even know how to cook?”

“Of course not, but I presume that someone who was raised by Muggles would, and I’m going to have to clear the kitchen of galleons before you can make us a meal.”

Potter shakes his head. “I’m guessing nobody taught you how to cook with magic, then? I’ve seen Mrs Weasley do it tons of times, and it’s definitely quicker than the Muggle way.”

“It’s not like they teach the spells in the standard Hogwarts curriculum, Potter. Another thing we’ll have to change, no doubt. Even if they did have it in a separate class, I wouldn’t have been allowed to take it, nor would I have considering I could’ve just hired a house elf to take care of those sorts of things.”

I banish the galleons into one of my spare trunks. Potter stays oddly silent behind me.

“Let me guess, you disapprove of house elves too,” I say, turning on my heel to face the Gryffindor. “Well, guess what, Potter? I may be both a Malfoy and a Black, and those families might be notorious for treating their house elves poorly, but I have never in my life raised my hand or wand against a house elf. My father did that enough in our manor, and I’m not him. I may look almost identical to my father save for mother’s eyes, but I am not his copy. Sound familiar? Neither of us are copies of our fathers, Potter. If we’re going to pull off acting like brothers and working together on this, then you better remember that.”

Potter sighs. “What did you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. Something edible, preferably. And that doesn’t take long to cook. I do want to be going to bed sometime tonight.”

“Really? No obscure requests or anything?”

“I seriously doubt you’d be able to make any of my favourites to my standard, so just cook whatever you think you can with what’s in the kitchen.”

Potter just nods and moves past me, rattling off the rest of his information on Riddle almost absentmindedly. There is something odd though. The Gryffindor moves about the kitchen without a moment’s hesitation, not even when he’s rifling through the cupboards for the right cookware and ingredients.

“You’re not at all affected in the kitchen by the age change, are you?” I ask.

Potter shrugs. “I was cooking more meals at this age than any other.”

“Why is it that every time you open your mouth, you manage to make your childhood sound even more pitiful?”

The Gryffindor glares at me. “Maybe being abused by my Muggle family will help the story of a Black wanting to adopt me.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” I concede, before realising it’s never a good idea to antagonise the cook. “It’s just that if Mother had known about the conditions you were raised in, she really would have taken you in.”

“You’re kidding,” Potter says flatly.

“You’re the Black Heir, Potter, and Mother takes family loyalty very seriously. She’d have obliterated those Muggles, and then changed all records, so it seemed as though they never existed in the first place. I’m sure Father would’ve disagreed with helping the Boy-Who-Lived in any capacity, but that never stopped Mother from demanding that I make nice with you on the Hogwarts Express. But then you rejected me in favour of a _Weasley_ , and the Blacks have had a problem with them for decades, so it was only natural for me to react the way I did.”

“You mean tormenting me and my friends for years?” Potter asks.

I sniff dismissively. “It was the appropriate response, I assure you. Plus, I thought you knew all of this at the time, and you were completely rejecting your family on purpose.”

Something that would look like comprehension on anyone else settles on Potter’s face. “And rejecting family has been a big thing for the Blacks with Sirius and…”

“Andromeda, yes. She severed all connections with her family, even though Mother was perfectly willing to stay in contact. I do believe the first time either of us got to meet my cousin Nymphadora was when she helped arrest Father.”

Sympathy actually crosses Potter’s expression, like I have any use for it.

“That… That must’ve been awkward,” he says.

“Yes, well, she _did_ call me a baby Death Eater, so _naturally_ I called her a Blood Traitor.”

Potter grimaces, no doubt already forgetting any shred of sympathy. “How’d that go?”

“Mother slapped me upside the head, formally greeted her niece, and asked how her older sister was faring. Of course, Tonks, as she calls herself, thought Mother was joking and didn’t give her an answer.”

“You know, now I’m just feeling bad for your mum.”

“Don’t. She’s still a pureblood supremist who would burn the Earth if it meant protecting her family, and she considers Muggles a threat to our culture. Suffice to say, even though she would never lower herself to work under a Dark Lord, she has all the makings of a Dark Lady herself, but she never became one because it would have taken up too much time on top of her already considerable workload. That, and she wouldn’t want to put her remaining family, namely _me_ , at risk because of her decisions, unlike Father. Interestingly enough, the only reason Mother wasn’t sorted into Hufflepuff for her unparalleled protectiveness is because she threatened to burn the Sorting Hat if it placed her anywhere but Slytherin.”

Potter’s jaw is slack.

“Oh, stop gaping, Potter. My mother _is_ a Black after all, and Blacks are anything but simple.”

The idiot closes his mouth. “Guess arguing with the Sorting Hat is normal, then.”

I scoff. “Hardly. Mother’s the only person I know who’s gotten away with it.”

“I mean, I argued with it, so it _wouldn’t_ put me in Slytherin, so…” Potter trails off.

I’m sure there a number of appropriate responses to learning that, but frankly, what little I’ve eaten since experiencing extreme magical exhaustion I’ve since thrown up, so I can’t possibly be blamed for the first words that come out of my mouth.

“That just proves you’re one of us after all. Only a Black would even consider arguing with an ancient artefact like that, and please don’t ruin the sentiment by spouting nonsense about you not knowing how important the Sorting Hat was at the time. I know you’re smarter than that, even if you do your best to cover it up.”

“You would too if you were punished for having good grades,” Potter mutters.

And that just about does it for my limit of revelations in one day.

“Congratulations, Potter, you’ve managed to make me feel sympathy for you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go collapse on one of those uncomfortable lounges until dinner’s ready. I’ve one thing I need to talk to you about after I’ve eaten, but then I’m understandably done for the day.”

I stumble out of the kitchen before Potter can respond.

*

As it happens, Potter can make a passable spaghetti bolognaise. I’m not sure if he hears me admit as such considering I’m blinking a ten-minute nap away while telling him, but it’s probably for the best that he didn’t. Wouldn’t want him thinking that I’ll start treating him _nicely_ or anything so ridiculous. I wait until Potter’s washed the dishes, because he doesn’t trust me to not do it magically if he tries to assign me the task, before bringing up the final topic of the night.

“You’re going to have learn Occlumency.”

Potter freezes midway through sitting back down.

“Is that necessary?” he asks.

“Unless you’re going to spend your entire time in the Wizarding World refusing to make eye contact with anybody, then, yes, Potter, it really is necessary for you to learn at least some basic Occlumency.”

Potter aborts the sitting motion completely and crosses his arms.

“I swear, if you tell me to clear my mind, I’m going to hex you back to the 90s.”

“It would be forward, Potter.”

The Gryffindor glares at me. I roll my eyes.

“ _Fine_ , it’s not like I was going to tell you something as arbitrary as ‘clear your mind’ anyway. As if I expect you to be able to do that before you have even a semblance of Occlumency training to build off first.”

“And you’re going to train me then?” Potter asks.

I shake my head. “Not until you’ve finished reading all the preparatory textbooks on the subject matter that I was given before starting training. Anybody with an ounce of magic could read those books, do their exercises, practise regularly, and come out with adequate Occlumency shields. I’m only going to get involved if you have any questions, or if you’re ready to test your shields against Legilimency, which is almost impossible to teach if you don’t have any base talent in the art, so don’t expect any help with that as well.”

“Why didn’t Snape just make it that simple when Dumbledore ordered him to teach Occlumency to me?” Potter questions.

“Probably because Dumbledore didn’t actually order Severus to strengthen any of your natural mental barriers. If anything, it would’ve been in the Headmaster’s interest to keep your barriers as weak as possible. Dumbledore is the most notorious for illegally using Legilimency against minors after all. I know Severus used it on those he found suspicious, but Dumbledore? He used it on every single student that made eye contact with him, and he found reasons to be suspicious of anyone with proper Occlumency training. Mother taught me that much when she gave me those books, and the Headmaster confirmed it to Severus in one of their many discussions over which students will end up Death Eaters if they don’t interfere. Not that Dumbledore ever would save anyone from such a fate.”

Potter yawns. “Can I start reading in the morning?”

“Definitely,” I say, standing up and stretching. “Pick a bedroom, and I’ll levitate your trunk into it. Don’t even think about trying to wake me up before 10am unless it’s an emergency.”

“Right back at you.”

I don’t want to wonder what a disaster it would’ve been if I’d had to do this myself, without knowing about Riddle’s horcruxes, and he has six of them because he split his soul six times, and that shouldn’t be possible. It just shouldn’t, but it’s Vol- Tom Riddle Junior, so I don’t know why I’m surprised by the lengths he of all people would go to ensure he’s survival, but _six_. At least I have Harry Bloody Potter on my side. Maybe we’ll be able to do this.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought that this chapter would be shorter than the first. I thought wrong.


	3. Goblins don't care about time-travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For plot purposes, I’m blurring the ages of certain characters by a few years (like Bellatrix), so that they’re Hogwarts age.

**HARRY**

The sun wakes me up, even though I always pull my bed curtains shut. I open my mouth to tell Ron off, considering he’s the only one who’s dared tried waking me up that way since Sirius died, but then I realise the angle of the sunlight is all wrong for where my room is in our dorm. I open my eyes and automatically reach for my glasses. But I don’t need to put them on to remember why everything’s off. Really, the size and comfort of the bed should’ve given it away. That, and that fact that my body’s smaller than it was before. I guess I didn’t really want to believe it last night.

I’m really in the past. With Draco Malfoy of all people. Why can’t my life be normal for just one year?

I rub my hand over my face and sigh, reluctantly putting my glasses on and bringing my new bedroom into focus. It’s certainly bigger than my room at the Dursleys’, probably a little smaller than mine and Dudley’s rooms combined. It’s weird to hear what must be standard late-morning Muggle London noises from the cracked open window. If I hadn’t spent the past almost six years living in a dormitory, I doubt I would’ve been able to sleep through the sound. Who am I kidding? I learned to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs just fine, even with Dudley purposely jumping on the steps to wake me up whenever he wanted a midnight snack.

I’m immediately glad for the plush rug under the bed when I crash into it in my attempt to stand up. Getting used to shorter and weaker limbs is apparently going to be a painful experience, literally. Malfoy doesn’t curse my name or try hexing me through the wall, so I guess I didn’t wake him up. I stumble to my feet and glare at my legs until they stop shaking. My first step almost sends me crashing back into the floor, but thankfully, my legs get the message, and carry me out of my bedroom and almost straight into one of Malfoy’s trunk towers.

In the light of day, there seems to be fewer trunks than I remember, but that could just be because Malfoy was considerate enough to make some sort of semblance of a pathway between the rooms. Well, considerate, or worried that I’d knock them over if I had to keep climbing them and jumping from tower to tower. Funny how my limbs were more cooperative last night than now. It’s probably because the adrenaline has worn off now that I don’t have to keep an eye out for a Slytherin who keeps using magic despite overtaxing himself.

Never thought there’d be a day that I’d have to be concerned over Draco Malfoy before this past year, but I guess desperation pushes people to break expectations. Ron would probably be sceptical about trusting Malfoy in all of this. He’d be convinced the Slytherin had some hidden motive, yet Malfoy’s been pretty open about why he’s gone through all this trouble to stop Riddle. I can definitely understand doing everything to save family. If I could save Sirius… But I can now. I can save everyone. All I have to do is work alongside Malfoy to do it.

That’s definitely worth it.

By the time I reach the kitchen, my legs stop trying to give out from under me, so I figure it’s safe to move around hot surfaces to make breakfast. Malfoy could probably use a large meal after all the magic he used yesterday, so I start frying up some bacon in one pan, while mixing up some pancake batter. I hunt down some tomatoes to cut up and some potatoes to make into hash-browns once the pancakes are going, barely slowing down even with four pans going at once. If Aunt Petunia taught me one thing, it was how to multitask with hot surfaces.

Malfoy strolls into the kitchen when I’m flipping a pancake with one hand and switching bacon rashers with my other.

“How is it that you manage to fail so spectacularly in potions if this is how you cook?” he asks.

I shrug, sparing him a glance and hiding the twitch of a smile. “How is it that your hair looks worst than mine first thing in the morning?”

Malfoy scowls and flattens his white-blonde hair. “Because some people actually bother to tame their hair before being seen in public.”

“Any attempts at taming my hair ends up with it being worst than it was at the start. I figure it’s because my accidental magic was involved in regrowing it when Aunt Petunia cut it too short when I was younger.” I shoot him a grin and shift the last of the hash-browns and tomatoes onto our plates. “My hair’s magically this messy. What’s your excuse?”

“Black genes,” Malfoy answers simply. “Have you seen Bellatrix’s hair? Not all of us can get the easy-to-tame genes that Mother, Sirius, and Regulus got.”

I finish the last of the bacon. “Maybe you should keep not gelling your hair then. That way we look at least somewhat related.”

“The blood inheritance tests we do at Gringotts today will settle any disputes that we aren’t Blacks.”

“Won’t that tell the goblins who we really are?” I ask.

Malfoy rolls his eyes like I’ve asked something painfully obvious. “Goblins don’t care about time-travel, Potter. Or at least they certainly won’t considering we’ll be brining in additional galleons to their vaults. I’m sure they’ll be delighted at how much gold they can squander out of me when I request goblin magic as protection from any spells revealing our true identities.”

I clear my throat. “So, uh, if there was a map that a certain group of friends end up making at some point over the next seven years that showed everyone’s true names no matter if they’re using Polyjuice, this goblin magic would be able to get around that?”

There’s a loud thump behind me. I turn and see Malfoy hit his head against the wall again. He glares at me until I sheepishly avoid eye contact and check on the last two pancakes.

“You being able to easily stalk me over the past year suddenly makes a lot more sense,” Malfoy grumbles.

I switch the burner off and hold out Malfoy’s plate. “Breakfast?”

“You’ve given me double the amount that you gave yourself,” Malfoy points out.

“If I try to eat any more than this, it’ll end badly. I discovered that the hard way after the first Welcoming Feast. My eleven-year-old body isn’t used to eating a lot of food at once yet. I’ll be able to build my appetite back up over the next month, so I don’t look like a starved nine-year-old when we get to Hogwarts.”

Malfoy frowns. “I’d cast a glamour for our trip today, but it’d alert the goblins the moment we enter Gringotts, and we can’t risk aggravating them considering how much we need their assistance in transitioning to a new time and assuming new identities.”

I shrug and shove Malfoy’s plate at him, so I can grab my own and move past him to leave the kitchen and get to the dining table.

“We can just claim I hit a growth spurt between today and September 1st. It’s not like we’ll be seeing that many people at Diagon Alley today. The crowd would’ve hit yesterday.” I put my plate down and glance up at Malfoy. “Speaking of, what are we doing about our Hogwarts Acceptance Letters?” I ask. “They would’ve been due back two days ago, right?”

Malfoy sits down. “The spell took care of that. Our conversation with the goblins will ensure that our names are correct on the forms. Luckily, all letters are automated through magic, so nobody will notice if one first-year’s name changes a bit. I already planned to take the Black name, so it was just going to be a matter of my companion’s name changing slightly.”

“How complex was this spell of yours?” I ask, having to sit down as I try to figure out how many layers there must have been.

“Let’s just say there’s a reason it took me so long to perfect it. My magic won’t be back to normal levels for at least a week.”

“It’d probably be faster if you stopped using it needlessly,” I point out.

Malfoy chooses to poke at his food instead of offering a verbal response.

I roll my eyes and stuff my mouth. “You know, you liked dinner just fine,” I say after swallowing.

“That was before I saw you use all the burners at once while carrying a conversation.”

“If they weren’t all meant to be used at once, there wouldn’t be four of them.”

“And what age did you learn to start doing that?” Malfoy asks.

I clench my jaw, about to snap out a sharp retort, but then I notice that Malfoy looks genuinely curious, and remember his comments about his mother taking me in if she knew.

“Six,” I answer. “Aunt Petunia had me stand on a stool, so I could see over the stovetop properly. Of course, that was after Vernon complained that I kept burning things, even though I couldn’t actually see into the pan. The stool was actually Dudley’s idea, funnily enough. I think it was one of his rare moments of civility pre-Dementor attack, even if it was just a way to get more food.”

“Dementor attack?” Malfoy questions.

“My cousin and I were cornered by a couple of Dementors the summer before fifth-year. I cast a Patronus and dealt with them, of course, and once Dudley realised that I’d saved him, he stopped treating me like I was his personal punching bag.”

“I thought all of that was an elaborate hoax.”

I spear a tomato. “I’m pretty sure most of my life seemed like an elaborate hoax to over half the Wizarding World.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

Our conversation for the rest of breakfast mostly consists of Malfoy telling me what our plan is going to be upon entering Diagon Alley, but he says that if I’m confused just let him handle it enough times that I stop bothering to defend the jabs at my intelligence. It’s only until he mentions what to do if we come across someone who’s done something to gain our hatred in the future, that I say anything.

“So you’re saying that if I happen to see a young Peter Pettigrew that I should just smile at him and be civil?” I ask.

“I’m _saying_ , Potter, that we’re dealing with first-years mostly, and a sixth-year in the case of Bellatrix. While I don’t doubt that having to deal with her is going to be difficult, you’re going to have to be civil to a certain other Slytherin who’ll be in our year.”

I’m glad that I’ve finished eating, or else I’d choke on my food at the realisation.

“You think I’m going to hold Snape against what he did in our past?” I ask.

“Well, you obviously have some history with Severus, and-”

“He’s best friends with my mum, Malfoy,” I point out. “There’s no way in hell that I’m going to treat him badly if it means being on the end of her anger. I’ve literally never had my mum be angry at me before. I’m not going to change that over Snape.”

Malfoy seems to reconsider me for a moment. “So we’re in agreeance that we’re not holding actions that people have yet to take over them?” he asks. “Especially if we’re in a position to change their future allegiances?”

“The more people we stop from being Death Eaters, the better, right?” I confirm, and at Malfoy’s nod, I shrug. “Then it’d be pointless to hold a grudge and drive them into Riddle’s cult.”

“It’s not a _cult_ , Potter.”

“It’s kind of a cult. Just a bit. Like, if a whole bunch of your family members weren’t a part of it, you’d be calling it a cult too.”

“So you’ll admit that Dumbledore’s Order of the Flaming Chickens is a cult then?”

I consider it for a moment. “I reckon they’re more of a militia than a cult. They don’t all gather at one great big table for regular sacrifices to giant serpents, or phoenixes for that matter.”

“How do you even know that?” Malfoy asks, his voice sounding particularly strangled.

“Riddle liked sending me visions of it to gross me out. I don’t think he ever really emotionally matured past the level of an average teenager.”

“The moment we get back from Diagon Alley, you are reading those Occlumency books,” Malfoy declares, all but running to his room, and after a couple of slamming doors, the bathroom.

“I take it you’re not a fan of Nagini!” I shout.

Malfoy swears rather violently for about ten seconds straight. I’m pretty sure even Ron would be impressed. Not that I’ll ever be able to tell him because we’re most probably trapped over twenty years in the past. I glare at the plates a little before forcing myself to get up and wash them. If I happen to use a lot of pressure the moment I hear Malfoy turn the shower on, well, that’s what he gets for not properly warding and locking a door when performing an extremely complex spell. Slytherins are meant to prepare for everything, after all. He should’ve expected me to think he was up to no good and stalk him.

Hermione would decidedly not agree with that sentence. At least I don’t have to listen to one of her lectures any time soon. The thought makes my stomach drop. I run a hand through my hair and sigh. If Malfoy can handle all of this with only a minor breakdown over the Horcrux mess, then I can handle not having my best friends with me. I mean, c’mon, Malfoy set up an insanely intrinsic spell designed to have him bring a companion, and when it came down to it, none of his friends were there for him. At least I have the knowledge that if I’d asked, my friends would’ve jumped up to come with me, once they’d realised they couldn’t convince me not to do it, of course.

I can’t help feeling just a little bad for Malfoy.

*

I take it back.

“Why, exactly do I have to be wearing your clothes?” I hiss under my breath.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, tapping the brick pattern to access Diagon Alley.

“Because, _brother_ , all of your clothes make you look like they’ve been hit with fifty Engorgement Charms. I’m not allowing you to be seen in public like that. You’re welcome.”

“I looked like that when we met, Draco,” I point out, not managing to make his name nearly as mocking as his ‘brother’.

“Yes, well, that was a travesty and a half, and frankly, a memory that neither of us should ever reflect on.”

I barely notice that we’ve properly entered the Alley until the explosion of noise takes me off-guard.

 “It’s … a bit of a relief,” I admit, looking at all the shops bustling with customers, bright colours, and weird smells.

Malfoy seems to understand what I mean, without saying it. “Yes. Let’s hope it never looks like _that_ ever again.”

Diagon Alley seemed so untouchable before Sirius died and Riddle was revealed to be back. It was the first place in the Wizarding World that I’d ever seen, and for it to become so… We won’t let it happen again. Not to this generation and certainly not to the next.

 Gringotts is as unchanged as ever, that thieves warning actually making me smile a bit, until I catch the glare of a goblin. I nod to him, remembering Hermione’s lectures about equal creatures’ rights, and the ridiculous fountain in the middle of the Ministry of Magic. All magical beings deserve respect, not just the ones who look and act like us. Malfoy raises an eyebrow at me, yet he bows his head to the guards all the same. The goblins look shocked at the gesture, and mutter to each other in Gobbledegook. Though now that I think about it, I wonder if that’s the Goblin name for their language, of if it’s something wizards made up to make the goblins seem lesser than them.

Ron would tell me to stop spending so much time around Hermione if I’d ever asked him that. Hermione would set into a fit of research and immediately believe whatever the books tell her, even though they were written by witches and wizards. I’m sure she’d try to figure out a deeper answer if she caught on to an idea of some injustice, but sometimes I think she trusts books a little too much. Maybe Professor Flitwick would be happy to tell me the answer. He’s half-goblin, and as a professor, he’d be less likely to be offended by the question, right? He’s Head of Ravenclaw after all, and he wouldn’t push off answering something that might be obvious like Snape would have.

Nobody else in Gringotts looks at us twice until we reach the teller and Malfoy says why we’ve come.

“I’d like to open an account, make a deposit, and we’ll both take a blood inheritance test. Private room for the latter, for obvious reasons.”

A nearby teenager scoffs. I almost double take when I realise that she’s a fourteen-year-old Narcissa Black, and I only know her age because Malfoy mentioned which years each of the Blacks were in on our way to the Leaky Cauldron. Malfoy must’ve seen her, and who’s probably Andromeda Black with her, on our way in because he doesn’t turn even when she speaks to her sister.

“Can you believe it, Andy?” she asks. “Mother would never have let us out to do our business alone at that age. She at least made sure we didn’t embarrass ourselves the moment we left the manor.”

“Speak a little louder, Cissy,” Andromeda says dryly, “I don’t think the whole of Diagon Alley heard you.”

Narcissa rolls her eyes, but she continues talking at a whisper.

I hadn’t realised how much Malfoy’s personality resembled his mother, family dedication and intelligence aside, but now I have to keep a smile from breaking out as Malfoy pointedly doesn’t look in the direction of his mother and aunt. The teller must accept Malfoy’s payment because he gestures for us to follow another goblin towards where the private rooms must lie.

“Prick your fingers on these and let two drops of blood fall onto the parchment before you,” the unnamed goblin orders the moment we sit down in the elaborate meeting room.

I almost ask for his name, but he taps his foot impatiently, so I just follow the instructions, glancing to Malfoy on my left to make sure everything is going as he expected. The parchment immediately sprawls out in ink much like the Marauders’ Map, until it’s filled with a family tree, and list of inheritances. I glance up at the goblin, who’s taken to standing on his chair to read our parchments upside down, not seeming at all bothered by our birthdates or actual ages. He does frown suddenly though.

“It appears there is a change in Heir statuses for three Most Noble and Ancient Houses and one Legendary House. For a payment, we can keep this concealed from the Heads of these Houses, and only reveal the change once the shift in Lordship occurs,” the goblin says.

Malfoy pales. “What do you mean Legendary House?” he asks, glancing at my parchment.

I read my Heir statuses and shrink a little.

“I might be the literal Heir of Slytherin,” I admit, “though I’ve no clue what ‘by conquest’ means.”

Before Malfoy can react, the goblin speaks again. “When you come-of-age you can decide whether to revive a second Legendary House title of Peverell for an additional fee, though I would consider the action unwise considering you are the future Lord Black, Potter, and Slytherin already.”

I’ve never even heard of the name Peverell before, so I merely nod at the goblin’s advice and turn to Malfoy.

“I’m going to have to make my own father my heir to give him the Potter title back, aren’t I?” I ask him.

“Wait until he expects to get the title first, and decide whether he actually deserves it, Potter. If he’s just going to throw away the pureblood title, then there’s no point in giving it back to him, is there?” Malfoy shakes his head. “Of course, a bloody Gryffindor is going to be Lord Slytherin.”

“But won’t Riddle notice?” I ask. “He’s meant to be Heir, isn’t he?”

The goblin taps his nails against his desk. “One Tom Marvolo Riddle never officially claimed his title at Gringotts, and therefore has been illegally using the title Heir of Slytherin since his time at Hogwarts. It is by rights his, but due to him not claiming it, he isn’t allowed to use it, nor claim the Lord title, so long as you claim Heir today.”

“You should claim it, Potter,” Malfoy says. “It’ll be a step towards undermining Riddle’s power. We don’t have to declare our Heirships immediately, or even for the next few years, but we should take them regardless.”

“Well, it’s not like Sirius is going to want the Black Lordship anyway,” I think aloud, “but won’t Lucius-”

“Lucius Malfoy disgraced the Malfoy name in one lifetime. I won’t allow him the chance in this one.”

Again, I think the goblin might say something about the obvious time-travelling, but if anything, he seems amused by the proceedings. There probably hasn’t been this much expected drama over who’s going to be Heir for these particular Houses in decades.

“So how do we do this?” I ask.

“You’ll be given your Heir Rings, which can be made invisible, a feature I believe you two will be making use of, and while they’re brought here, Heir Malfoy and I will discuss the particulars of your situation, as he appears to be the most informed.”

I can’t bring myself to argue the obvious observation, so I just sit back and pretend that I understand the particulars of their discussion. I’m getting whatever books Malfoy can recommend on Wizarding culture, Heirships, and the lot, once we make it to Flourish and Blotts. At some point, Malfoy mentions the Marauders’ Map, and I reluctantly hand it over, so the goblin can ensure our real names don’t appear on the future, or past, the _other_ version. I suppose after all of this, Harry James Potter will be my birthname, rather than my real name. I’m really going to be Harry Black, Heir of Houses Black, Potter, and Slytherin.

Bloody hell.

“What’s my middle name going to be?” I ask suddenly, earning matching scowls from Malfoy and the goblin, not that either of them would be glad to hear the comparison. “Sorry, it’s just that if it’s my father’s name, then it’ll be even more obvious that I’m a Potter, won’t it?”

“Leo,” Malfoy says. “You are a lion, after all. That, and it fits with the Black naming tradition where your first name doesn’t. We’ll claim that Mother changed your middle name to help you fit in better with the family.”

“What about you then? Are you keeping your middle name?” I ask.

Malfoy shakes his head. “I’m not keeping that Blood Traitor’s name in mine. He sold our family’s future to a tyrant. I’ve always liked the constellation Scorpius, so that’ll be my middle name.”

The goblin places a finger on each of our parchments and the names change. _‘Harry Leo Black’_ and _‘Draco Scorpius Black’_.

“Guess I’ll have to change the initials on my trunk,” I mumble.

Malfoy opens his mouth, no doubt about to demand that I get a new trunk, but he must gather a single shred of empathy because he closes his mouth without a comment.

There’s little fanfare when we receive our Heir Rings, and even if there were, I don’t think I’d notice considering I can’t stop staring at my changed name. It’s not like I worship my dad anymore, not after finding out how much of a bully he was, but it’s weird to see his name completely gone from mine. I know I still look like him and my mum, but I just feel like I’ve washed away one of my only connections to them. It doesn’t even make sense. I’m going to be meeting them within a month. I’ll be going to Hogwarts with them, seeing a side to my parents that kids never get to see.

I think I’d trade that in an instant if I could just know what they were like as actual parents, not kids who are technically younger than me. But that’s why we’re doing all of this. It’s so the future Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy get the family they deserve, not one that will sell their lives, and consequently the lives of their children, to a war that should never have happened in the first place. Malfoy may not want to live with that knowledge once we eventually succeed, but I think that the sacrifice loses its value if nobody remembers what it was all for.

By the time we leave the meeting room, I have the Black Heir ring on my left middle finger, the Slytherin Heir ring on my right middle finger, and the Potter Heir ring on my right ring finger. There’s some importance about that order, but I trust that Malfoy isn’t letting me do it incorrectly. He cares about Wizarding traditions too much to purposely lead me astray in something like this. The rings are invisible, and apparently, intangible for everyone except the wearers. I’m sure either the goblin or Malfoy mentioned instructions regarding them, but it’s not like I’ll need to change their state anytime soon, and when I do, I’ll just ask Malfoy. He seems to delight in knowing more anyway, so he’d probably be glad for me relying on his superior knowledge on this particular topic.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Misters Draco and Harry Black,” the goblin says, bringing me out of my thoughts to glance around Gringotts.

Unfortunately, or fortunately as Malfoy probably arranged for the goblin to say that, Narcissa and Andromeda Black are still present, and they definitely heard the goblin. Malfoy finally glances at his mother and aunt, merely offering them a polite smile and head nod. I do the same, if only because of how much Malfoy stressed the importance of family to the Blacks. Narcissa steps towards us as we pass them on the way to the exit, but Andromeda holds her hand out.

“Not now, sister,” she mutters just loudly enough for us to hear. “Aunt Walburga is sure to want to hear of this, no?”

We don’t hear Narcissa’s response, as Malfoy opens the door to Diagon Alley and the explosion of noise covers it. Malfoy leads me to a nearby Quidditch display and subtly casts _Muffliato_ around us. I’m not at all surprised by him knowing one of Snape’s spells.

“This is the year things go downhill for Andromeda,” Malfoy says, studying the, compared to my Firebolt, pretty pathetic racing broom.

“She marries Ted Tonks, right? He’s a Muggleborn?”

“This is the year they become close friends. Both of them become fifth year prefects, Andromeda a Slytherin, and Tonks a Hufflepuff. They didn’t start dating until early seventh year, though only my mother knew that. The rest of the family found out a few weeks after Winter Break. My father becomes the other prefect this year, and he’s the one that found out about their relationship and got Walburga Black to disown Andromeda from House Black. She won’t be able to do that this time around though.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“If the Heir of the House is of age, then the Lord or Lady needs their support to properly disown someone. You’ll be seventeen as far as magic is concerned in a little over a month, and Andromeda’s hardly going to get herself disowned between now and then, so she’ll be protected. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of drama once Walburga realises that it didn’t work, but with the goblins protecting us, we’ll be in the clear. All the mystery over the true Heir Black will give Andromeda a reprieve and reduce the likelihood of her completely rejecting the Black name.”

“I’ve just got one question. You can call me an idiot all you like for not knowing the answer or not asking earlier, but I’ve been reasonably distracted over the past forty-eight hours.”

“Just get on with it, Potter.”

“Why did we get the Heirships? I mean the Slytherin one kind of makes sense for me, but the others…”

Malfoy sighs. “Right now, there are officially two sets of Heirs for Houses Malfoy, Black, and Potter. We, however, are older, as far as magic is concerned, than the original Heirs, and as such, we have more right to the Heirship than they do.”

“But do they have their own Heir Rings?”

“Yes, and any actions they take with them, the goblins will tell us about, so we can veto them if we disagree. That’ll obviously reveal that they’re no longer the true Heir, but I doubt we’ll have to worry about that for a while. Or at least, you won’t. Neither Sirius Black nor James Potter were particularly involved with their Heirships, and I know my father well enough to be able to trick him into thinking he still has a right to that kind of power.”

I don’t bother reminding Malfoy about what he said regarding not holding someone’s future against them. I’m all for messing with Lucius Malfoy, especially considering how impossible it’d be to stop him from becoming a Death Eater.

“Where to next, then?” I ask.

Malfoy cancels the Muffliato Charm. “Flourish and Blotts. Then, it’ll be the Magical Menagerie. It’s Black tradition to get a familiar for one’s first year, and I was never allowed anything but an owl. I’ll be choosing out potions’ ingredients on another day, and we’ll get our robes fitted closer to September 1st. It’s still Hogwarts rush week, after all.”

All of our possessions came with us, valuables copied and brought to the flat, but not living things, not familiars. Not Hedwig. She’s… She’s not here. She’s not even hatched yet. I wonder if her parents are even hatched yet. Probably not. I hadn’t realised before. I can’t even remember the last time I visited her in the Owlery. How terrible is that? She’s always been so loyal, keeping me company at the Dursleys even if that meant suffering alongside me. She was brilliant, she was. Smartest owl I ever came across. And now she’s gone. Not even born yet.

My first friend doesn’t exist yet. None of my friends do.

“You alright, brother?” Malfoy asks, actually managing to sound somewhat concerned, even if the word brother sounds as alien as the concept feels.

I force a smile. “Just remembering my first friend.”

“What, some Muggle?”

“No, Hedwig. My owl. She was my first birthday present too. At least, if you don’t count my first birthday. I don’t think you can really count something you don’t remember.”

Malfoy looks me in the eye, his jaw set. “We’ll get you a new familiar, not to replace her. It’ll be something completely different. Something that could’ve been her friend if my spell could’ve-”

“I bet you miss your owl too, huh,” I realise.

“He was my most loyal companion.”

I nod and don’t ask any more questions when Malfoy stalks towards the bookstore, obviously done with any sort of commiserating.

*

“I’d like a copy every book in this year’s Hogwarts list, including all subjects for each year, and two sets of the first-year textbooks,” Malfoy requests in a haughty tone that makes it more like a demand.

My mind flashes back to the trunks filled with books Malfoy has back at out flat. Apparently, Draco has shares some characterises with his namesake, namely hoarding. I know I like to keep things even when they’re broken, but I grew up with nothing, so at least I have an excuse.

“Hermione showed me the Muggle Studies textbook once,” I try to reason. “It was about as accurate as most of Sybill Trelawney’s prophecies.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Most?”

“She made a total of two accurate predictions in a lifetime of spewing nonsense.”

The shop assistant looks between us like she’d much prefer Malfoy to take a couple of books off the enormous list, sale or no sale. Unluckily for her, Malfoy rolls his eyes dismissively.

“I already knew the books were garbage, brother. I’d like to know exactly how terrible they are, so that we can eliminate any general wizarding misconceptions regarding Muggles,” he says, turning back to the shop assistant who’s gone paler than Moaning Myrtle. “I expect my order to be ready by the end of the week.”

“Is that everything?” the shop assistant asks.

I grimace and place my stack of books about Wizarding culture on the counter. “I’d also like these, please.”

“Of course,” she says, touching each book in the stack with her wand. “It’ll take me a bit longer to process the order into the complete payment.”

Malfoy waves it off. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Remind me again why exactly you want all the books,” I say, leaning against the counter.

“I’ve already studied most of what’s in the first through to sixth-year books, and some of the seventh-year ones, but I’d like a refresher on several topics, and it’d be nice to expand my knowledge a bit while the other first years are figuring out how to turn their matches into needles.”

“What about your current copies?” I ask.

Malfoy sighs. “They’re all out of date.”

I wisely hold my tongue about how much he sounds like Hermione right now.

“Are you going to be taking all of the books with you to Hogwarts this year?” I ask.

“I have multiple dedicated library trunks for a reason,” Malfoy points out, like that should’ve been obvious. “You can borrow some of the books that I don’t require throughout the year if you want. It’s not as though I’ll be needing dozens of books at once. The most I’ve ever had out during research was eleven.”

“Your order is complete,” the shop assistant announces, sounding immensely relieved.

“Excellent, I’ll pay now, and be back in a week to pick it up,” Malfoy says, blocking my view of the total with his arm.

I don’t bother trying to look at it, more than used to having to hide the price of things from Ron because he wouldn’t accept a gift. If Malfoy wants to spend one of his towers of galleons on books and it makes him happy, then it’s money well spent. It’s not like he’s throwing it away if he’s going to spend hours poring over his purchases once he receives them. As for him paying for my books, well, I’ll just pay for the Muggle books I’m planning on dragging Malfoy out to buy at some point before September 1st. I mainly just want to laugh at him trying to act normal around a bunch of Muggles. It evens out me knowing virtually nothing about Wizarding culture.

*

It takes all of twenty seconds from us entering the Magical Menagerie for Malfoy to get annoyed at me.

“No. Harry, no. You are not getting a snake.”

_“But she’s so perfect. Aren’t you, beautiful?”_

Malfoy sighs. “You’re hissing, you idiot.”

I glance up from the white baby ball python. “Huh?”

“I said you were hissing, you idiot. Do you want to make a big scene out of being a Parselmouth, or have you somehow forgotten what happened four years ago?”

“But wouldn’t this be a way of getting ahead of the belief that only dark wizards are Parselmouths?” I ask, folding my arms.

Malfoy mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘I hate when he’s right,’ before throwing his hands into the air. “Fine, but you’re taking care of it, and I better not wake up to it anywhere near me, or I’ll hex both of you before you can so much as blink.”

I beam and turn back to the python. _“Deal.”_

Malfoy groans and stalks off to a different part of the store for some reason, but I’m too distracted by watching the python to figure it out. The white snake climbs up my left forearm and wraps herself around it, resting her head again my wrist, her tongue flickering out against my palm.

_“Do you have a name, beautiful?”_ I ask.

She turns her head. _“My nestmates call me Little One, but I could get used to Beautiful, even if it doesn’t sound very intimidating.”_

I laugh. _“How about Belladonna then? That way you’re pretty and deadly at the same time.”_

Her mouth widens into a snakey-grin. _“I love it.”_

She’s not Hedwig, and I’m pretty sure that fussy owl would hate me having a snake, but at least with Belladonna I can be a little prouder of my Parseltongue ability. It’s not like I used to avoid it until the whole Heir of Slytherin thing in second-year. And now, it turns out I really am the Heir, so I might as well make the most of the benefits, namely having a conversation with a familiar that nobody else can understand. Maybe Belladonna would even be up to a little spying around Hogwarts. It’d certainly make avoiding trouble a little easier. I’m sure Hermione would correct that and say, ‘you mean, getting _into_ trouble, Harry.’

I’m really going to miss them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve made Harry a bit more open to his smarter side now that there’s no risk of the Dursleys finding out his grades and punishing him for them. I’ve always found that his internalised behaviour of suppressing his intelligence thanks to them, and Ron’s jealousy, is actually really sad, especially considering how much potential Harry has.
> 
> As for the middle names, I couldn’t resist the nod to Scorpius Malfoy for Draco, and Leo was honestly the first thing that came to mind for Harry. I only realised after a quick Google search that Regulus is a star in the Leo constellation (my astronomy knowledge is nowhere near as good as I’d like for my favourite branch of science). Suffice to say, Regulus is going to be a major player in this fic, but he isn’t going to be introduced for a while (he’ll be in the year below the boys).


	4. Red hair, green eyes: must be your mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while...

**DRACO**

I deny all claims that I bought more Muggle books over the past month than I did Wizarding ones. Any and all Harry James Potters, or rather, Harry Leo Blacks claiming such a thing are liars and should never ever be trusted. After all, comics are hardly counted as the same thing as scholarly textbooks, so even if I technically bought a greater quantity, that in no way means that Potter is correct. I had to immerse myself in Muggle culture to understand how incorrect the Muggle Studies textbooks are. That’s all. I didn’t like a single Muggle book, nor did I drag Potter out to buy more.

That’s all lies and slander against the Malfoy name, even if I’m unable to take the name I’m Heir to. At least my father won’t be able to ruin the name in the future. Protecting a legacy rather than letting it live to be horribly tarnished is well worth the cost of letting the name fade. Perhaps I’ll find a suitable blood heir in the future. It’s not as if purebloods don’t regularly intermarry. There’ll be someone, somewhere, with a tangible hold on the Malfoy name who wouldn’t mind taking the mantle once this mess with Riddle is resolved. That could be my next mission.

It’s not as if my current one doesn’t already have a high chance of absolute failure.

Potter’s finally managed to construct the bare foundations of his Occlumency shields, and they might’ve been more substantial by now if he hadn’t kept getting distracted by the textbooks I ordered. At first, it was kind of funny to watch him inch towards my library trunks, snatch up an Ancient Runes or Arithmancy book and disappear back to his room. Now, I’m starting to wish he’d just stop glancing up at me like I’m about to rip the books right out of his hands, or yell at him for daring to educate himself.

Belladonna has definitely helped in breaking Potter out of the mindset those Dursleys beat into him. I’m just glad to have some help it that particular task, even if it is in the form of a tiny snake. It wouldn’t do to have my one trustworthy ally, and I can barely believe I’m referring to Potter as that, held back because of how those Muggles treated him. And if I happen to be a little bitter that I never found myself a familiar over the past month, I’m hardly going to take that out on Potter or his snake. The Gryffindor’s a surprisingly competent ally, and I’d never dare to get on the bad side of a snake, let alone one bonded to a Parselmouth.

Thankfully, Belladonna is asleep right now, no doubt wrapped around Potter’s forearm beneath his Hogwarts robe. It’s been annoying to be mid-conversation with the Parselmouth, only for him to suddenly start hissing because Belladonna said something. I don’t want Potter’s attention to be split at such an integral moment in our mission. If we mess up too badly today, then we might as well throw away the chance at infiltrating Hogwarts in this time. September 1st a pivotal day of first impressions after all. I’ll not have a distracted Gryffindor ruining all my hard work at getting us here just because his familiar wants attention.

I send my various trunks into my Hogwarts one, all of them shrinking as they fly through the flat to their destination. Potter is also using magic to pack his trunk, something he’s apparently never done before, but then again, he’s been using magic for practically everything all morning, since it’s technically his birthday today, or rather, his magic’s birthday. I’ll be the first to admit that travelling some years, months, and days in time instead of just years can get rather confusing. At least, I’ll be the first to admit that in the privacy of my own mind behind several Occlumency barriers that could rival the security of a Gringotts vault.

“You haven’t packed all your library trunks yet, right?” Potter asks, the fourth-year Ancient Runes and fifth-year Arithmancy textbooks hovering above his trunk.

I haven’t, but that’s what Potter wants to hear.

“Afraid so. I suppose you’ll just have to pack those in your own trunk. I’m sure you can make the trek to the Slytherin common room when you’re finished reading them.”

Potter clearly tries to restrain himself from grinning like an idiot, but he’s even less subtle than I am, which is saying something.

“We’ll be taking the Floo, by the way,” I say, sending my final trunk into my Hogwarts one and closing the latter.

The various mechanical locks click into place alongside enough warding to keep out curious dormmates and privacy invading headmasters alike out. I’m not nearly confident enough in my warding ability to deter the latter, but luckily, Mother was the one who warded my trunk before my very first day at Hogwarts. I’ve added some more layers over the years, but it’ll be her magic that keeps anyone I haven’t explicitly granted access to from so much as touching my trunk. House elves are the only exception for being able to move my trunk, otherwise it would draw unnecessary attention to it, but even their magic wouldn’t be able to crack Mother’s. She’s an Unspeakable for a reason after all.

“Do we have to?” Potter asks, muttering a _“Pluma Levis”_ on his trunk.

The Feather-Light charm works well enough for the Gryffindor to pick up his trunk with one hand and tuck his wand up into its holster with the other.

“Unless you’d rather we Apparate into London and take the Muggle entrance to the platform? That would mean getting a cart for our trunks, considering neither of us looks strong enough to lift them.”

Potter rubs the back of his neck. “It’s just, I haven’t had the best experience with the Floo, or portkeys, or Apparating actually. In fact, magical transport that isn’t flying tends to not sit well with me.”

“Nobody’s going to bat an eye at an eleven-year-old stumbling out of one of Platform 9 ¾’s fireplaces. The most attention you’re going to get is from the first-year muggle-raised students who will be too busy taking in everything about magic to care that someone their age isn’t graceful.”

“So it won’t go against your plan if your brother falls flat on his face in front of everyone?”

It would certainly reduce the likelihood of anyone believe us to be true Blacks, acknowledged by the goblins as such or not.

“Any good plan is adaptable,” is what I say instead.

“That’s a yes, then,” Potter says.

I roll my eyes. “First impressions are crucial, and if that means the image we present is a pure-blooded Black helping his adopted half-blood brother to his feet, then so be it.”

Potter frowns. “I thought you were trying to get over the blood purity thing.”

“Funnily enough, it is actually possible to work with other’s beliefs without compromising my own.”

Potter looks away with the air of a chastised Crup. I triple check the flat’s warding, anti-dust charms, and five layers of preservation spells, three of which encompass the kitchen alone.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Not really, but I don’t think I ever will be, so we might as well just go.”

I step before the fireplace and grab some Floo powder.

“Platform 9 and ¾!”

Potter gulps behind me, but I ignore him in favour of stepping into the fireplace and out onto the bustling platform. I step aside and lean against the wall of fireplaces that are modelled after the Ministry ones. Potter stumbles though the fireplace a moment later, already careening towards the ground.  I grab his arm and steady him. Potter shoots me a grateful smile, one that is somehow covered in soot. Nobody seems to be watching, so I mutter a _Scrougify_ under my breath and clean my new brother’s face.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

I scan the platform for any familiar faces, as we move out of the way of arriving families.

“Oh, look, Potter,” I whisper. “Red hair, green eyes: must be your mother.”

Potter jabs me with his too-pointy elbow. “You better not start insulting her, Malfoy, or I swear–”

“Relax, Harry,” I say loudly. “Mother wants us to make friends, remember? I’m sure it’d make her ever so upset if she hears that we spent the entire train trip keeping to ourselves. Aren’t the people you meet along the way meant to be half the Hogwarts experience?”

“I thought you didn’t believe everything just because it’s in a book,” Potter grumbles.

“That’s because I have the sense to know the difference between raw fact and writing to an audience, unlike a certain know-it-all who wouldn’t know the difference between a grey hex and a dark one if she was hit it in the face with them.”

“You’re still annoyed she broke your nose.”

“She punched me! What kind of self-respecting witch punches someone when she has a wand?”

Potter glares at me.

“Okay,” I concede, “so, I might have had it coming, but still, there would’ve been plenty of appropriate hexes for the situation.”

“I could hex you now if you want to make up for it,” Potter suggests.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

The Hogwarts Express hoots for the five-minute warning. I scowl at the sight of students fighting each other to get on the train at once. Potter ducks his head, holds his trunk behind him and slips into the fray. I follow close behind, using him as a shield of sorts to break the crowd apart. But Potter doesn’t make the other students move out of his way. He ducks through gaps between hugging families, dodges a pair of stumbling third-years, jumps over a spilled trunk, and steps onto the train like reaching it was no problem at all. I only manage to follow because of years spent tracking his movements in Quidditch.

“Where was all that grace when you were using the Floo?” I ask.

“I never had to walk through a magical fireplace portal while escaping my cousin.”

Right. That seems to be the reason behind a lot of Potter’s behaviour, actually.

“Well, lucky you’re a Black now.”

“Now my cousins have magic on their side as well, you mean?” Potter retorts.

I roll my eyes and tug him out of the way of the stream of students getting on the Hogwarts Express.

“Now you have me to watch your back,” I correct.

Potter scowls and almost snaps out something that’d surely be a terrible idea in a crowded train carriage, but he thankfully stops himself. “You might be right,” he says.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Harry? I’m always right, especially when it comes to matters of family.”

“If you’re always right, then where are we meant to sit, _brother_?”

“Together, obviously. I don’t trust you not to start a fight within the first minute of meeting someone.”

“That sounds more like something you’d do,” Potter says.

I ignore him.

“And there are enough Blacks at Hogwarts this year who’d be more than happy to interrogate you about our family’s relation to the main branch, which you never bothered to memorise.”

“Why would I need to when you know it?” Potter asks, which again, doesn’t deserve a response.

“As for where we’re going to sit, I say we pick the first compartment and stick with it, so long as whoever might already be inside doesn’t try to hex us.”

“So we’re not going to stalk through the train, opening compartment doors at random and insulting half the occupants?” Potter asks, as the Hogwarts Express hoots and starts moving.

“That was six years ago,” I point out. “And I’ll have you know that it seemed like perfectly reasonable behaviour at the time.”

“Probably because you learned how to talk to people from watching your godfather.”

He’s not wrong, but really, I’m not going to start admitting that any time soon. I’d make some comment about Potter’s godfather if he weren’t still so prickly about the blood traitor’s death. At least Potter’s sorting should reduce some of the backlash Sirius will face at being the first Black sorted outside of Slytherin in generations. I doubt Potter will end up anywhere but Gryffindor considering he apparently argued his way into the house last time. I just hope he remembers our task once he’s surrounded by the family he never had a chance to know.

I open the first compartment door on our left and step inside, not really bothering to look at its occupants, too busy half-heartedly glaring at Potter for his last comment.

“I’m Draco Black, and this is my brother Harry,” I declare.

I feel like it’s a declaring sort of day.

Potter rolls his eyes. “Sorry for just barging in here like that. Draco can be a little too dramatic at times.”  
“Really, _Harry_ , you think I’m the dramatic one? Me?”

“Buckbeak,” Potter deadpans.

I sniff. “Yes, well, you and your lackeys saved the beast anyway, so I suppose it all worked out in the end.”

“Friends, Draco, they’re my friends. Lackeys aren’t actually a normal thing.”

“Normal?” I question. “What _is_ that like? I imagine it’s quite boring, like those simpletons who graduate Hogwarts and choose a career that has not one ounce of magic in it.”

“Are we really going to make fighting on trains a thing?” Potter asks, crossing his arms. “Still?”

Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana, do I hate it when Potter manages the bare semblance of what would be a good point if literally anybody else said the same thing.

_“Fine_ , Harry, have it your way. We can play nice for the next several hours if we really must. But I retain the right to meet any insults directed my way with a self-esteem crippling response.”

A light laugh directs my attention inside the compartment, and I have to stifle a laugh myself at the sight of a young, surly Severus Snape sitting next to the epitome of light, Lily Evans, and the source of the laughter.

“I _told_ you there’d be others like us, Sev,” Evans says. “Weren’t you just telling me about the list of insults that you made especially for this train ride?”

“I’d hoped I wouldn’t need them considering there are enough compartments for us to not have to share with others,” Severus grumbles.

 Evans slaps his arm. “Don’t be like that, Sev. You can’t spend the next seven years with only me as your friend.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

Severus gives Evans a look that says she’s making a terrible argument, but he’ll go along with it anyway. To Potter, it probably just looks like he’s scowling, but I happen to know my godfather’s many micro-expressions from years of trying to be as subtle as he is. It turns out I don’t really have the self-control for subtlety unless the occasion really calls for it, but it was a fun several years of following Severus around Malfoy Manor regardless.

Evans waves us inside. “I’m Lily Evans, and this grump is Severus Snape.”

Severus eyes us suspiciously as we sit down, Potter across from his mother at the window seat, and me across from my godfather.

“You don’t look related,” Severus says.

“Harry’s adopted,” I explain simply.

Potter doesn’t seem to have anything to add to that, though come to think of it, the Parselmouth is looking awfully pale. And he seems to have lost the ability to speak or do anything but stare blankly at Evans and Severus. Really, I wasn’t nearly this bad when I saw a younger version of my mother. Sure, she was still alive in our time, and I actually had the opportunity to know her, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let Potter ruin the efforts of my meticulously crafted spell over something as simple as a conversation.

“His godfather was a disowned Black who couldn’t take care of Harry, so Mother decided to take him in instead of leaving him to suffer with his Muggle relatives who hated all things magical.”

That seems to break Potter out of his trance. He drops his trunk and turns to glare at me.

“Don’t talk about Siri like he was somehow incompetent. It’s not his fault he couldn’t raise me like my parents wanted.”

I levitate our trunks to the baggage space above our heads with a muttered _Wingardium Leviosa_ and an emphasised eye roll.

“Your godfather was a perfect example of why Blacks are never to be underestimated in a duel, Harry. I’d never so much as imply that the man was ever incompetent,” I point out.

“You’re purebloods,” Severus says, with all the resignation of the son of a disowned pureblood witch.

Potter could stand to look less offended at the semi-accusation.

“My mum was Muggleborn, actually, so I’m a half-blood,” he corrects. “Draco’s the pureblood. Not that blood really matters, or even whether someone’s wizard or muggle raised. Someone who comes from a long line of witches and wizards and is one of the laziest students at Hogwarts will never be as good as someone who only found out about magic a month before the start of term and tries their best.”

“Your lackeys proved that,” I mutter.

Potter ignores me, which I suppose is slightly better than trying out his petrified ghost impression. Merlin, there’s still a basilisk under Hogwarts. At least I know Potter won’t be stupid enough to try waking the blasted thing up any time soon. If he does, I just might leave him to be eaten by it.

“I somehow doubt everyone will believe the same,” Severus says.

Evans smiles, her eyes hardening in the exact way Potter’s does when he’s about to get particularly stubborn about something. “Then we’ll just have to show them how wrong they are,” she says.

Maybe keeping people from realising how similar Potter is to his mother is going to be harder than how much he resembles his father. At least with all the intermarrying that purebloods do, we’ll be able to convince people that Potter’s distinctly Potter-like features aren’t from a direct relation. Thank Salazar half the Wizarding World don’t realise how many Muggles there truly are, or else they might actually question a half-blood and a Muggleborn looking alike.

“Optimism like that will put you in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff,” I comment.

Potter double takes. “Did you just say Gryffindor without sneering? I didn’t think that was physically possible.”

I huff. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Harry. I’m the epitome of equality for all Hogwarts Houses. It’s hardly my fault that most intolerable idiots all happen to embody traits from the house of the lions. Really now, that’s entirely on them. It’s like they want to perpetuate stereotypes and worsen their reputation. I have nothing against Gryffindors in general, and I am offended you would ever imply as much.”

Potter collapses into a fit of giggles that I promptly ignore, turning instead to Evans and Severus.

“Which house depends on how you choose to approach such a situation,” I explain, “or at least, that is one of many factors, alongside what you value you most. My family has almost always been sorted Slytherin, so I don’t have as much familiarity with the other three houses. We’ve had a handful of Ravenclaws over the generations, and sometimes a couple of Hufflepuffs, but only one Gryffindor since Hogwarts was founded. I imagine that’ll change this year though, what with Harry’s parents and godfather being lions.”

Potter manages to stop giggling like a fifth-year high on pixie dust. “I reckon I could be a good fit for any of the houses,” he says, “but I really hope I’m not in Ravenclaw. I’d be locked out of the Common Room all the time because of the door knocker. It’s a miracle that sphinx–” He pauses mid-sentence and switches to the familiar hissing of Parseltongue. I don’t have to look to know that Belladonna has woken up and is coiled around the Parselmouth’s wrist like a living bracelet. Evans doesn’t react, no doubt thinking that talking to snakes is a normal magical ability, but Severus has the sense to raise an eyebrow.

“Snakes aren’t a permitted familiar,” he points out.

“That list is more of a recommendation than an official rule. If Harry weren’t a Parselmouth, there would be more of a problem,” I explain.

“How many people can talk to snakes?” Evans asks.

Potter looks up from Belladonna and grimaces. “I only know of one other person,” he says. “It’s meant to be an ability that only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin have, but apparently, I’m an exception.”

“Always the exception, aren’t you?” I drawl, mentally wincing at how my eleven-year-old voice sounds.

“Do I need to remind you how exactly you ended up collapsing a month ago?” Potter asks. “I’m pretty sure you ended up proving that you’re an exception to a pretty important rule.”

“Lucky Mother wasn’t home, or she would’ve killed me herself for attempting that.”

Potter gapes. “You mean you never told her about your plan?”

“Of course not. There’s a reason I waited until she was away for work first. Even on the other side of the world, I’m sure she knew something was wrong. I’m surprised she didn’t mention anything in her letters.”

“Probably thought her mail was being monitored,” Potter comments offhandedly, somehow managing to speak in English despite cooing at Belladonna.

“You may be right,” I allow. “And I was rather stressed at the time, so I would’ve missed any coded scolding.”

“Is this how all wizards act?” Evans asks Severus in what’s probably meant to be a whisper, except most eleven-year-olds haven’t quite learned how to actually whisper.

Severus no doubt notices that we hear her, what with me raising an amused eyebrow at Evans, and Potter back to gaping because he realised that I admitted he was right about something.

“These two seem to be exceptionally abnormal,” Severus says at his usual volume.

Evans frowns. “Sev, you can’t just call people that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mean. You wouldn’t want them to call you the same thing, would you?”

“I’d simply accept being called exceptional and ignore the rest.”

“Well, what if someone called me that?”

Severus sighs. “You do realise these two haven’t taken offense?”

Evans glances over to us and relaxes. “Oh, alright then.”

“We are rather exceptional, aren’t we, Harry?” I say.

We were the best Seekers Hogwarts had seen in years after all.

Potter hisses something incoherent and frowns when nobody responds. He throws his head back and groans. “Why can’t it stop sounding like English?”

“Because you haven’t practiced enough,” I answer.

“Not my fault that hissing seems to freak people out.”

“Then they’re idiots,” Severus says dryly.

Potter jolts and stares at my godfather incredulously. I suppose that’s the first time the Gryffindor has had Severus even marginally on his side, so I allow Potter his moment.

Moments end.

“If you gape one more time, I’m jinxing you, so your face stays that way,” I say.

Potter slumps, running a hand through his hair and somehow managing to mess it up even more. I roll my eyes and send a charm at his nest hair that returns at least a semblance of tidiness to it.

“I’ve been wanting to use that charm for years,” I say.

It took six years of pure willpower not to cast it at Potter every day at the breakfast table. I’ve no clue how the Gryffindor prefects held themselves back, let alone Granger. Then again, the latter probably only learned the charm in our fourth-year. Muggleborns wouldn’t be so ignorant of common ‘household’ charms if we had a Wizarding Studies class, but no, that would somehow be exclusionary according to Dumbledore. Catering to different backgrounds wouldn’t make any sense at all. I may not have been stupid enough to try killing the man myself, but that doesn’t mean he has a place at Hogwarts. McGonagall would make a better Headmistress, and she’s almost just as biased towards her house.

Perhaps Madam Pince could be Headmistress. She seems to dislike all students equally at least.  

The compartment door opens, and Sirius Black looks around the room, his shoulder length hair loose, and far less wild than the man’s who spent twelve years in Azkaban. His grey eyes narrow in on mine, and he shoulders open the door further and steps into the compartment.

“You’ll be the new Black Cissy and Andie were talking about then,” he says, probably trying to sound nonchalant, but his squeaky voice ruins the attempt.

Merlin, is my voice this bad at eleven?

“Heir Black,” I greet, and yes, my voice is that bad.

Salazar, I cannot wait for my voice to deepen again.

The actual Heir Black stares at our visitor with a wry smile. “Have you been searching every compartment for us?” Potter asks, glancing at me for a moment.

I _told_ him that Mother asked me to find him. Then again, I suppose Black’s mother asked him to find us today as well. If I never have to meet that vile woman, I’ll consider this trip to the past a success.

Black crosses his arms. “I wanted to see who’d want to claim a connection to our family.”

I bristle at his unspoken implication that nobody should want to be a Black. Mother may have spoken about how Sirius Black rejected his family after getting to Hogwarts, but I hadn’t realised it started happening before he was even sorted. Does he really have so little loyalty to his name this early on?

“Draco,” Potter says, eyeing the wand gripped in my hand. “Do you really want to get a Howler for attacking Sirius Black on the train?”

 “Oh, so that’s his name,” Evans says, breaking the tension. “I was wondering what it was with all this Heir Black titles and stuff. Are lords and heirs common in the Wizarding World? There was no mention of it in the pamphlets or booklist.”

“It’s a pureblood thing,” I explain. “Harry has some books on a lot of wizarding traditions and culture because he hasn’t caught up on learning it all yet. He could let you borrow them if you’re interested.”

It’s not like I’m going to completely deny Potter the chance to get to know his own mother, so long as it doesn’t interfere with our mission. I’m not that heartless. It helps that a Lily Evans who knows more about the Wizarding World would be less likely to allow Severus to be caught up with aspiring Death Eaters.

Black seems to be having some sort of existential crisis. “Are you helping a Muggleborn?” he sputters, finally noticing the other two in our compartment. His face screws up in disgust at Severus. “Where’d you even find that uniform? It should’ve been burned years ago. I’m surprised they even let you onto the platform.”

Potter leaps to his feet, eyes hard as emeralds. “How can you say something like that to someone you just met?” he demands. “You can’t treat people like they’re somehow less than you just because they don’t fit in your understanding of the world. You do that, and you’ll be nothing more than a bully.”

Black scoffs. “What would you know about bullies? You’re part of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, aren’t you? Everyone in our family thinks that everyone else is below them.”

“That’s _not_ what family first means, and you know it!” I snap, gripping the bench to stop myself from cursing him. “It’s about doing whatever it takes for the sake of your family with the knowledge that they’d do the same for you. It’s about taking pride in the achievements of your family and being applauded when you do something that brings honour to the Black name. And it’s about standing united in the face of adversary, no matter how impossible to overcome it may be. The Heir should know that, and you certainly shouldn’t be slandering our name.”

“Going to call me blood traitor then?” Black asks.

I go to do exactly that, but Potter speaks before I can.

“Don’t, Draco. Just don’t. He doesn’t deserve that insult. Nobody does.”

“Except my father,” I mutter.

Potter smiles. “Except him.”  

Speaking of fathers… Potter Sr, and he really does look like a taller, less skinny version of Potter, ducks his head into the compartment and frowns.

“Really, Sirius? I left you alone for five minutes and you’ve already gotten into a fight?” he asks, surprisingly reasonable.

Black turns back to Potter Sr, looking disappointed for a split-second before he pulls up his Black-trained mask. Potter Sr shakes his head and slings an arm around Black’s shoulders.

“You couldn’t wait for me?” Potter Sr asks, clutching his chest. “I’m shocked, truly, shocked. I thought we had a connection, Sirius. I was so sure we were going to be the best of friends, yet you’ve already betrayed me like this.”

I take back any implications that a Potter could ever be reasonable and are capable of not being ridiculous Gryffindors.  
Black looks away, no doubt trying to hide his grin. “It’s just, I found the two new Blacks, and I thought that maybe they wouldn’t be complete stuck-ups.”

Potter Sr eyes me. “Well, that one’s got some Veela, Lovegood, or Malfoy blood in him, judging from the hair, so he’s probably as dramatic as any Black.” He turns to Severus, “No Black would ever have hair that badly cared for, even an adopted one,” and glances over Evans and Potter, “so even though the other two could pull off being twins with those identical eyes, I’m guessing the scrawny one is this adopted Black your family is up in arms about.”

Evans folds her arms, her eyes blazing. “How dare you? The two of you have no right to come in here and judge us like we’re some sort of exhibit at a zoo. We are people, the same as you. At least _we_ have the decency to treat others with the respect they deserve.”

Potter drops his wand to his hand. “Leave, or you’ll find out just what this ‘scrawny one’ can do with the right hex.”

Belladonna chooses that moment to hiss angrily from Potter’s wrist, which Potter just has to hiss back at.

“You’re a Parselmouth!” Black exclaims.

I idly tap my wand against my arm. “ _So_?” I ask, daring Black to say anything with my glare.

I’ll not have Potter’s godfather saying the wrong thing right now, not after Potter just had his own father so casually insult him. Merlin knows Potter just might blurt out the truth and make me have to Obliviate everyone else in the compartment. I haven’t had much practice with the charm, so who knows what kind of damage it could do to Black and Potter Sr’s minds?

“Give him a bit,” Severus drawls, managing a much better drawl at eleven than I could even at seventeen. “It’s obvious the Black Heir ended up with all the dramatics the Blacks are so well known for and none of the intelligence.”

Black scowls. “What would you know about my family? You’re obviously a Muggleborn.”

“Half-Blood, actually. My mother may have married a Muggle, but that makes her no less a pure-blooded witch. And the stories she had about the Blacks…” Severus smirks. “Have you caught the Black madness early? The signs are certainly there, already latched onto whoever this is with the rat’s nest hair.”

“Potter,” Potter Sr corrects. “James Potter.”

Potter half-chokes on a laugh. Everyone turns to him.

He waves us off. “Sorry, it’s just, that’s the exact same way Draco introduced himself to me. You’re not going to start going on about the right sort of people to make friends with, are you? Because if you are, I just might hit you with a silencing charm.”

Potter Sr stares at his son incredulously. “You don’t actually know–”

“ _Silencio_ ,” Potter casts blandly.

Potter Sr sputters, well, as much as one can when they can’t actually make any noise. Black opens his mouth to protest, and I immediately silence him. Potter turns to me with a wide grin that I can’t help returning a satisfied smirk to.

“Why couldn’t you have done that earlier?” Severus asks.

Evans slaps his arm. “Oh, shush, Sev. Just be glad they did it now.”

Potter stalks across the compartment to glare at his father and godfather. “Now, if I so much as hear about you two bullying or harassing anyone ever again, I will cast something so much worse than a silencing charm. You may have thought that you could saunter into Hogwarts, act however you want, and get whatever you want with no consequences, but that ends now. I’m more than happy to prove exactly what it takes to be adopted into the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black if you dare test my patience.”

He slams open the compartment door with a wave of his wand and shoves Black and Potter Sr out with a force of magic, slamming the door closed in their faces.

Potter turns around with a sheepish smile, while scratching the back of his head. “Do you think they’ll go to the prefects about technically being threated?” he asks. “I really don’t want a detention on the first day.”

He didn’t utter a spell. I don’t think he even realised that he was using non-verbal magic. Salazar, I hadn’t realised how powerful Potter actually is under all that usual Gryffindor bravado. Not that he acted like a Gryffindor just now. I’d almost believe he’d been raised by Mother if I hadn’t known better.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I find myself muttering.

And great, the Whomping Willow was planted this year. The old fool of a Headmaster will no doubt make some vague allusion to it being dangerous and watch as all the Gryffindors test their luck against a murderous tree. It’ll be the third-floor corridor all over again.

Potter rolls his eyes. “That wouldn’t have happened if your house elf hadn’t been trying to kill me.”

“I thought you loved Dobby.”

“I do, but he doesn’t seem to understand how to protect someone without putting them in life-threatening situations.”

“You’re acting like he forced you to drive a flying car through the middle of London.”

“Well, my middle name does mean lion,” Potter points out. “And it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’m putting that on your gravestone. ‘Here lies Harry Leo Black, whose final words were ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’.’ That is, if I bother sparing you the expense of a gravestone.”

“Just use the money from one of my vaults. There should be enough in there to get me a statue depicting whatever way I die.”

“Of course, you’d want another statue,” I mutter.

Potter freezes. “What do you mean another?”

“The one in Godric’s Hollow, of course,” I answer.

Something shutters closed in Potter’s expression. He stumbles to a bench and collapses onto it, barely managing to stay upright.

“They made a statue?” Potter questions, his voice a whisper.

“I thought you knew.”

“Why would I–?” Potter cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Why did nobody tell me?”

“They probably thought you saw it when visiting your parents’ graves.”

Potter laughs. It’s sharp, like one of Riddle’s when he’s particularly angry at some of his Death Eaters. I force myself not to flinch at the familiar sound.

“Nobody ever told me where they were buried,” Potter says, like someone might comment on the weather. “Nobody ever _thought_ to tell me. Not my aunt, not my godfather, and certainly not the man who should’ve kept them safe, who should’ve confronted their murderer long before he broke into our home all those years ago.”

Once again, Potter manages to make me feel guilty.

“Look, Harry, I’m s–”

“I should get back to studying Occlumency,” Potter states, floating his trunk down. “Who knows how far Bellatrix will go to figure out who our dads were?”

I sigh. “Right. You’ll probably have a month before she starts interrogating you. I’ll no doubt be cornered in the Common Room within the next two days.”

Something unidentifiable crosses Potter’s expression. “Right, and I’d be protected outside of Slytherin.”

I don’t get the opportunity to question why he doesn’t seem to be believe that because Evans asks what Occlumency is, and I settle in to explain to her, and the younger version of the man who taught me about it, that the mind arts usually aren’t necessary for first-years, but yes, there are some books on it in the library, and I suppose I can recommend a list. It’s not like Potter would’ve explained himself anyway. We may have to act like brothers to pass off this lie, but that doesn’t mean we’re really family. Potter rejected that opportunity almost seven years ago after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the rotating perspectives between Harry and Draco will show where they can both be a bit of an unreliable narrator when it comes to certain characters.


	5. Even the fake Blacks are Slytherin

**HARRY**

They built a statue. They built a statue, and nobody thought to tell me. They built a statue, and from the way Malfoy was acting, literally everyone else knew. Ron would’ve known. All the Weasleys would have. Hermione probably read about it. I could’ve visited it, could’ve visited their graves. Maybe not in the summer before second-year, or third, now that I think about it. But the summer before fourth-year? I think I would’ve preferred that over watching the Quidditch World Cup Final. Death Eaters showing up afterwards aside, that was one of the most amazing experiences in my life, but still I would’ve preferred to at least visit their graves once.

I can’t do that now, not in the time, with an eleven-year-old Lily Evans chatting away with an equally young Severus Snape across from me. My parents are still alive now, but they’re not my parents yet, are they? The James and Lily Potter who raised me for a little over a year in the middle of a war, the ones in the Mirror of Erised, the ones who showed up to protect me in my first real fight against Voldemort; they don’t exist anymore. They never will, not really. They’ll never have to fight in a war that’ll pause for fifteen years before starting up again. They’ll never sacrifice themselves for a child whose only memory of them is them dying. They’ll never be _my_ parents.

Some other Harry James Potter will have that role. Me? I’m stuck as Harry Leo Black now. Stuck working with Malfoy to stop Riddle because we’re each other’s only option. And maybe for a second or two there, it felt like we could pull this being fake brothers thing off, but at what cost? I got to see my dad and godfather again, even if they are so much younger, and I end up threatening them for Snape’s sake. Snape. Sure, it hurt like hell to see them confirm that they started out as bullies, even from this age, but now, I’m pretty sure they both hate me.

Wait a moment, did I just screw up my parents’ first meeting? Probably not, I guess. I don’t think that James Potter would’ve payed any special attention to Lily Evans on the train anyway. Even if he did, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had offhandedly insulted Snape that time as well. They didn’t get together until around seventh-year, right? At least back in Malfoy’s and my timeline. So their first meeting won’t change much in the long-run. Until James learns how to think before opening his mouth and insulting everyone in the room, he doesn’t deserve my mum.

I’m just glad neither Lily nor Snape have questioned Malfoy and me using spells so easily, especially when I float my trunk down, grab an Arithmancy book to read, and float my trunk back up. Malfoy rolls his eyes at the sight, so I turn to put my back to the window and place my legs on the bench, raising a challenging eyebrow at his silent scowl. Belladonna stretches out across my arm right when Malfoy opens his mouth to say something about it, and the Slytherin snaps his mouth shut. I’m going to use him being scared of a snake as tiny as Belladonna for as long as possible, and I’m pretty sure he knows it.

The rest of the train ride passes in near silence on our side of the compartment, Malfoy reviewing his first-year textbooks, and me reading the Arithmancy book out to Belladonna after she asks me what I could possibly need to learn beyond being a better hunter. She falls asleep to me hissing out the textbook’s contents, but I keep up the quiet Parseltongue, if only because it unnerves Malfoy. Lily and Snape take to their individual reading at some point, though they keep up a commentary on the books, pausing at some points to ask Malfoy or me a question if they don’t understand something.

At one point, Andromeda Black ducks her head into our compartment, a shiny prefect badge pinned to her Slytherin robes. She doesn’t say anything about the obvious Parseltongue, merely raises an eyebrow, and on seeing that none of us are trying to kill each other, whether accidentally or on purpose, closes the compartment door and moves off to check on the next one. I swear I hear Lucius Malfoy’s voice soon after that, and I almost put it down to hearing things if not for the way Malfoy stiffens next to me. His father’s voice thankfully doesn’t come any closer, and after a few minutes, both of us relax.

I almost comment on it but shut my mouth at Malfoy’s sharp glare.

It isn’t long before the train pulls into Hogsmeade Station, the Express erupting into the cacophony of students, young and old, packing away their things, getting changed into their robes at the last minute, greeting acquaintances and rivals alike outside their compartments, and rushing towards the closest exit. Malfoy and Snape sigh in the same unimpressed way, which makes Lily stifle a laugh. The Slytherins turn to her with a raised eyebrow, which just makes her laugh even harder. I smile at her explanation of how similar the two are, while I hide a sleeping Belladonna in my robes and leave my trunk for the house elves to collect.

The Thestrals take me off guard. It’s not that I forgot about them, but I thought that maybe with me being stuck back at eleven again that seeing Cedric and Sirius die wouldn’t count somehow. But of course they count. They died. Sirius may be alive in this time and not ten feet from me, pretending to be an old nobleman with James at his side, but my Sirius, the man who was my godfather, he’s gone. Cedric too. That seems even more absurd considering he hasn’t even been born yet, but I still watched him die, still saw how he was treated like some _spare_.

It was alright in a way that Voldemort was so focussed on me. I did banish him to spend a decade as a wraith, even if I still have no clue how it happened. Ordering Pettigrew to kill Cedric though, someone who wasn’t at all involved in the convoluted mess that is the never-ending battle between Riddle and me, that was what truly made me hate him. Cedric died because he was there. There was no rhyme nor reason. He was there, and so he died. I can’t let the monster who made that decision continue to plague our world. It’s because of him that I can see Thestrals.

It’s because of him that the older students are sending me looks of pity and the younger ones are wondering aloud whether I’m mad, looking at things that aren’t there.

A sharp tug on my arm snaps me out of it. Malfoy follows my gaze and shakes his head at the sight. I almost ask who he saw die, but I doubt he’d want that information spread around the entire school before breakfast tomorrow, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Boats,” I say, turning away from the carriages. “We should head to the boats.”

Malfoy gives me an unimpressed glare. “We’re certainly not about to Apparate to the castle.”

“I’m sure you could figure out a way past the wards,” I say, following the other first-years towards a younger looking Hagrid.

I pointedly don’t make eye contact with the half-giant, if only because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from acting familiar with the man who got me my first birthday present. If anything, interacting with Hagrid would make everyone more suspicious of me than knowing six years of the Hogwarts curriculum. Normal students don’t visit the groundskeeper after all, and Blacks, adopted or otherwise, wouldn’t so much as think about it. I’ve no intention of acting like a proper Black, but that doesn’t mean others won’t be constantly comparing me to that standard.

“While I’m glad you’re finally recognising my superior skill and intellect, even I would have trouble breaking through a warding system that’s centuries old,” Malfoy says. “It’d be simpler to create a different means of magical transportation that the wards haven’t accounted for, much like the spell I recently finished, which Mother thankfully hasn’t found out about.”

“Of course, so much simpler to just make a spell from scratch,” I say. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “You say that, yet I know you’ve devoured enough Arithmancy textbooks to at least be a little familiar with the basics of spell crafting.”

He’s not wrong, but I don’t want to keep feeding his ego too much. It’s already the size of a Hippogriff.

“You mean you don’t just point your wand and think really hard about what you want to happen?” I mock gasp.

Three other first-years nearby actually turn to look at me like I’m the biggest idiot they’ve ever seen, so I guess they didn’t catch my sarcasm.

Malfoy laughs. “Good one, Harry.”

I stare at him like he’s lost his mind, until I notice those other first-years looking away, chastised. Oh. He’s playing the protective older brother role.

I fake a grin. “Admit it, I had you going for a moment.”

“Please, you spent half the train trip buried in an Arithmancy textbook. I’m surprised you put it down to leave the train.”

I pat my pocket. “Who says I didn’t just shrink it down to read during the Welcoming Feast?”

“Ravenclaw,” a passing first-year coughs.

I don’t think I’m quite at Hermione’s level of reading while eating. But I _am_ going to finish eating before anyone else because of having to recover my appetite thanks to the Dursleys, and it’s a lot less awkward to be reading about magical maths than it is to have a bunch of housemates question why I’m not eating much. If hiding behind a book means not having to face people I knew as adults for a little while longer, well, that’s a bonus.

I already messed up with Sirius and James, and any more time around Lily will make me ruin that too. If I haven’t already. She might’ve been acting polite because she was grateful that I dealt with Sirius and James, but if there’s anything I was taught about Lily Evans and a young Severus Snape, it’s that they don’t like other people standing up for them when they’re just as capable as doing it themselves. Maybe Malfoy would’ve been better off coming alone for this. I’ve drawn the most attention to us after all.

It seems I’m destined to always stand out at Hogwarts, even if I’d rather be ordinary. At least this way the other students are more likely to think about what I say and do, even if it’s to find new ways to heckle. Malfoy won’t be able to join them without breaking this ‘brothers’ act, so there shouldn’t be any charmed badges circulating the castle. I wouldn’t put it past the git to secretly make them and hand them out to other Slytherin students to take the credit instead. He’ll create inter-house unity in hating me. It worked in second, fourth, and fifth years.

“Quit looking depressed and get in the Morgana-damned boat, Potter,” Malfoy mutters.

The Slytherin attempts to gracefully climb into Lily and Snape’s boat, and ends up scowling when the small amount of room has him flopping into it like a sack of flour. Pretty much every other first-year is waiting in their respective boats and staring back at me, so I scramble in behind Malfoy right as Hagrid makes the boats lurch forward. I wonder how he managed to get the broken pieces of his wand working in his umbrella, considering that when Ron’s wand broke at the start of second-year, it was never the same.

I’m glad Hagrid still gets to use magic after being wrongfully expelled though, even if he really shouldn’t have kept Aragog in the castle. The Acromantula may have tried to eat Ron and me, but it never actually hurt anyone inside the castle when it was young. I tried to explain that to Ron once, but he just got increasingly red until he finally snapped, bright red right to the tips of his ears, and yelled that I shouldn’t be trying to defend the monster that tried to have us eaten alive. I bet his reaction would be the same to me working alongside with Malfoy.

The castle comes into view and draws almost every first-year’s attention. Malfoy spares it a brief glance, while I find myself staring at Gryffindor Tower. It looks identical to Ravenclaw Tower from the outside, and something in my gut clenches at that. Before the Weasley Twins made their dramatic exit from Hogwarts, they took their brooms and flew up Gryffindor Tower, and then they stuck a curtain rod on the very top with a Permanent Sticking Charm, so that it would always be just slightly taller than the Ravenclaw one. Umbridge didn’t even notice because she rarely went outside the castle, and anyone that did notice, even the Ravenclaws, left it remain there unchallenged as a tribute to Fred and George. 

I’m not even sure if Mr and Mrs Weasley have graduated yet or not, though I guess they’d be Arthur Weasley and Molly Prewett if they haven’t. I hope that if they are still students, that I don’t see them around much. Molly was my only decent mother figure, so it’d be really weird to see her as a teenager. I’m pretty sure Ron couldn’t even imagine his parents being kids without short-circuiting. Ginny too. George would delight in all the possible blackmail material he could find out. Fred would blatantly drop hints about being their future child. Percy would never dare find himself in the past, thank you very much. I’m not as sure about Charlie and Bill. I never really got the chance to properly know them.

Hopefully, they won’t have to grow up during a war this time around.

I climb out of the boat, half-paying attention and half-in thought. A sharp elbow slams into my side, and I stop myself from hexing its owner. The young face of one Antonin Dolohov glares back at me. I grip my wand tighter and glare right back. Dolohov rolls his eyes and barges his way through other first-years, not sparing me a second glance. I take a deep breath. No eleven-year-old is a Death Eater, even if they’ve already got a bad attitude and most probably hate all Muggles and Muggleborns alike to go along with it. We’ve got seven years at Hogwarts to turn their prejudices on their heads. Automatically hexing a future Death Eater is just going to make that harder. I breathe out.

“Too good to take in the sights like the rest of us?” an irritated voice asks.

I stop at the sight of Sirius standing in front of Malfoy, the soon-to-be Gryffindor’s arms crossed.

“There’s this town nearby called Hogsmeade,” Malfoy says. “You might have heard of it at some point in the many lessons I’m sure you weren’t paying any attention to considering your manners are clearly lacking. Interestingly enough, one can actually see Hogwarts from a few different points in Hogsmeade, and the town doesn’t exist solely for the purposes of teenagers escaping the monotonous Hogwarts routine. In simple words, so your mind can comprehend, that was hardly the first time I’ve seen the castle. It is most certainly a beautiful sight, but should I feel the need to take it in again, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities over the next seven years.”

“You could’ve just said you’ve seen it before,” I point out.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, as if the very idea of being straightforward pains him. “Where would be the fun in that, Harry?”

“Where’s the fun in standing around arguing instead of getting on with the Sorting?” I retort.

“I’m sorry. You’ve reached your maximum amount of good points allocated for the day. Any more must simply be blasphemous because that would imply you have a brain hidden in that skull of yours,” Malfoy says this all completely seriously, and as if he is so very exhausted by me making good points, that I can’t help a genuine laugh.

“If I get a maximum amount of good points, then you get a maximum amount of insulting people, and I’m pretty sure you hit that limit before we even got on the Express.”

“ _Fine_ , I’ll allow you one more good point for the day, and that is it. Use it well, brother.”

“As if I’d waste such a concession from the too-stubborn Draco Scorpius Black.”

“If I’m too stubborn, I’d like to know what you would be.”

I don’t get to answer because Hagrid calls those of us hanging back to join the rest of the first-years in the chamber next to the Great Hall.

Professor McGonagall meets us there, and it turns out that her speech to first-years doesn’t change much in twenty years. If something works, there’s no real point in starting it from scratch, I guess. That said, it’d be nice if the ghosts didn’t do the exact same routine as well. Ghosts don’t really do well with change, but you’d think they’d do their introduction at least little differently in two decades. Professor McGonagall gets us to sort ourselves into order, which means I have to be stuck between Malfoy and Sirius, who can’t seem to stop glowering at each other. The Transfiguration Professor calls us into the Great Hall before I get the chance to kick either of them.

Only a brown-haired boy stands in front of Malfoy, and I’m pretty sure he’s related to Hannah Abbott.

Professor McGonagall confirms this when she calls, “Abbott, Richard,” after the Sorting Hat’s song.

Hannah’s relative is quickly sorted into Hufflepuff to the polite applause of everyone in the Great Hall.

“Black, Draco,” Professor McGonagall calls next.

Malfoy mutters a “see you tomorrow, Potter,” under his breath and strides to the stool.

This time the Sorting Hat actually lands on Malfoy’s head before immediately declaring, “SLYTHERIN!”

Malfoy shoots me a victorious smirk and saunters down to the far table, unaffected by the non-stop whispering about new Blacks. Sirius mutters an ‘of course’ from behind me that’s one part bitter and two parts resigned.

“Black, Harry,” Professor McGonagall calls.

It’s funny. The last time I was walking forward to face the Sorting Hat’s decisions, I was so worried about what my parents would think if I got Sorted into any house but Gryffindor. This time, they’re actually here, waiting to be Sorted as well, but I can’t bring myself to only care about what they’ll think of me. It doesn’t really matter if they think that one house is any better or worse right now because Malfoy and I are going to change that. We’re going to stop Hogwarts rivalries from sending kids into opposite sides of a war they should never have been fighting in.

I’ve always had the potential for two houses in particular. One would definitely be the easy option. But the other would be a lot better for our mission. Just like the first time I was up here, it’s no choice at all.

The Sorting Hat lands on my head.

“Interesting,” it says. “Looks to me like you’ve figured it out for yourself, Potter.”

“You won’t tell Dumbledore about us, will you?” I ask. “I don’t want all of this to be for nothing if he tries to send us back.”

“You and your brother’s secrets are safe with me, Harry Potter.”

“He’s not really–”

“You’ll find greatness in… SLYTHERIN!”

Professor McGonagall lifts the Sorting Hat. The only person in the Great Hall that looks remotely surprised is Malfoy, whose jaw has gone slack.

I mumble a ‘thanks’ to the Sorting Hat and dart down to the Slytherin table, sliding into the spot next to Malfoy. The blonde doesn’t take his eyes off me, even as the Great Hall erupts at Sirius’s sorting into Gryffindor, which I politely clap at.

“But you’re a lion,” Malfoy squeaks out.

I shrug. “Now I don’t have to go far to return your books.”

Malfoy sits up straighter, as if he weren’t gaping a second ago. “Yes, well, I suppose you do have enough traits to be a Slytherin, even if it wasn’t the first house that I thought you’d be sorted into.”

“The Sorting Hat seemed to agree with my decision. Gryffindor would’ve been an easier path, but that doesn’t mean it was the right one,” I point out.

“Careful there, Harry, you’ve only got one good point left for the day.”

Fine.

“Fighting with Sirius is only going to make fostering inter-house unity harder,” I say.

And Malfoy does not expect that at all. He goes through looking offended, to annoyed, to reluctantly agreeing in the span of two seconds.

“You can’t expect me to not react when he insults our family,” Malfoy says.

“Arguing with him is only going to make him reject the Black name and all it stands for, not just the blood purity rubbish.”

Dolohov drops onto the bench across from us and scowls. “I thought all Blacks understood the need to keep magical blood pure from Mudblood infection.”

I twitch. Belladonna unwinds from my arm and looks up at me.

_“Must I bite someone?”_ she asks.

_“Not yet.”_ I glare at Dolohov, who is staring back at me with a new kind of respect. “You thought wrong,” I say, pointedly clapping when Lily is Sorted.

“Even the fake Blacks are Slytherin,” a high-pitched voice says from further down the table, her voice carrying. “What will Aunt Walburga think about her son and Heir being a lion? I say this is the first step of Cousin Sirius becoming a Blood Traitor. We should cut him from the family before he can infect the rest of us.”

“It’s not your decision, Bella,” Andromeda says. “Just because Sirius was Sorted Gryffindor, doesn’t mean he’ll reject the family. It’s probably his recklessness coming through. Sirius always has had trouble thinking his actions through first.”

Rabastan Lestrange is Sorted then, and Bellatrix huffs at her sister and claps for her soon-to-be brother-in-law. A sixth-year sitting next to her, who must be Rodolphus Lestrange, merely nods to his little brother, as the boy silently sits next to Dolohov. The younger Lestrange stares at Belladonna, unblinking. The ball python turns her full focus on him, and Rabastan just smiles back at her. It’s one thing knowing that the boy across from me could one day grow up to help torture Neville’s parents into a catatonic state. It’s another to realise that he’s five years younger than his brother and Bellatrix, and he looks like he might be on the edge of cooing at Belladonna, just like I did when I met her.

“Belladonna,” I blurt out.

Rabastan switches his intense stare from my python to me.

“That’s her name,” I explain. “I kept calling her Beautiful, so I figured I’d give her a name that meant both that and something deadly. I’ve only ever met one snake before that didn’t care about sounding threatening, but that one was raised in captivity in a Muggle zoo, and he was a bit too busy between thanking me for freeing it, scaring the daylights out of my brute of a cousin, and escaping.”

Malfoy elbows me. “Apologies for my brother. He’s impossible to shut up once he gets talking about snakes. If it weren’t for Mother, I swear he would’ve ended up secretly breeding a Basilisk by now.”

“They’re perfectly nice when they’re not trying to kill people.”

“Much like I’m sure a dementor is nice when they’re not trying to suck out people’s souls,” Malfoy retorts.

“That’s not the same thing. Dementors eat souls, so as despicable as they are, it’s a survival thing. Basilisks usually only hurt people, so they can defend themselves or their nest. They rarely target people for food. The ones in the history books were being manipulated or controlled by Parselmouths abusing their abilities.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Read into this did you?”

“I have an ability that lots of people have used for evil,” I point out. “I needed to know that hurting people wasn’t the only thing other Parselmouths have done, or else I’d start convincing myself that being able to talk with snakes was an inherently bad thing again.”

“You’re hardly evil, Harry,” Malfoy says.

“I know,” I lie.

Nobody else had a mental connection with Voldemort, and nobody else could claim so many similarities in the way they grew up. If I have so much in common with Riddle, then what’s stopping me from snapping and becoming a megalomaniac like him?

Belladonna’s tongue flickers against my inner wrist, tickling it. _“Frowning will chase your prey away,”_ she scolds.

_“Sorry, Little One,”_ I hiss, trading the frown for a soft smile. _“Is that better?”_

_“Yes, now start eating your dead food. You need to get bigger to be a strong hunter.”_

I don’t bother trying to argue that I’m not weird for not eating live insects because this really isn’t the time for that argument again. That, and I hadn’t actually noticed that the Sorting had finished. Snape is sitting on Malfoy’s other side, scowling away at the two houses separating him from the Gryffindor table, and I’m not sure how long he’s been there for. Asking would be rude, and point out that I wasn’t paying attention, which the Snape of our time used to love capitalising on, so I keep my mouth shut on the matter.

Belladonna loops around my wrist, back to her spot as my living bracelet, and hisses about each of my food options. I ignore her in favour of actually eating. I’m pretty sure almost all the surrounding Slytherins who heard either of my conversations with Belladonna are half-watching me while eating, and Malfoy is definitely annoyed that I didn’t even bother keeping my status as a Parselmouth a secret, but I’m tired, hungry, and haven’t had Hogwarts food in over a month. The more it looks like I don’t care for keeping secrets, the less people will look into mine and Malfoy’s forged past.

And it’d be nice for Parseltongue to not frighten everyone because of Riddle and the other Dark Wizards who were famous for using it.

*

Slughorn is worse than I remembered. I’m not sure how that is possible, considering he isn’t bringing up my dead mother constantly in an attempt to win my favour, but somehow, he manages to defy all expectations, and make me want to hex him more than I ever did Lockhart. I don’t think I could get away with attacking my Head of House though, so I keep my wand tucked in its holster, and Belladonna safely out of sight up my sleeve. Slughorn continues his now twenty-minute long explanation about his Slug Club and why he doesn’t see any potential whatsoever in the first-years.

Malfoy looks one more dig at our supposed distance from the Black main line away from hitting Slughorn with a Silencing Charm at minimum, and a Cruciatus at worst. Snape is clenching his hands into fists and looks one more jab at the quality of his clothes away from straight out punching Slughorn. Rabastan looks like he hears this every day, and if the Lestrange home life is anything like the Blacks, then he probably does. Dolohov simply does not care one whit and is rather pointedly yawning. The four first-year girls, who I managed to not catch a single name of, have unanimously decided to smile politely while looking like they’re ignoring every single word out of Slughorn’s mouth.

_“Just shut up already,”_ I hiss. _“You’re a terrible teacher, a worse Head of House, and only have any power because you’ve drilled into students’ heads for the past twenty years that you’re their best bet at networking. I reckon you’ve got next to no skill in anything besides manipulating and collecting people.”_

Slughorn stares at me with something akin to horror in his eyes. Pretty much the entirety of Slytherin House are gawking at me, with varying degrees of subtlety.

_“Quite right,”_ a gravelly voice hisses back. _“I’ve been waiting for someone to put him in his place for years. Too bad the only other Speaker to come through Hogwarts in Slughorn’s time was too busy sucking up to the deplorable Head of my House.”_

All eyes move away from me to the portrait hanging over the fireplace. I recognise the man in the portrait, if only because I once had the pleasure of seeing a Basilisk come out of the open mouth of a statue depicting the same man.

I duck my head in a sort bow, because this is a Founder, creator of the Chamber of Secrets or not. _“Hello, Professor Slytherin.”_

The portrait of Salazar Slytherin gives me a once over. _“Are you one of mine then?”_

_“Technically, no. Though I am the current Lord Slytherin.”_

As of today, at least.

_“Lord? You’re a first-year.”_

_“It’s complicated.”_

_“I’ll say. Giving Lordships out to eleven-year-olds. What has the world come to?”_

_“My uh magical age is kind of sort of seventeen though, so that’s why, I guess. Sorry if I’m not exactly what you expect. I mean, at least I didn’t choose to go into Gryffindor like I could’ve. That would’ve been more awkward.”_

Slytherin huffs. _“At least you’re not using my familiar to attack fellow students.”_

_“Don’t worry. My brother and I are going to stop Riddle.”_

_“You’ll have to destroy his horcruxes first.”_

Slytherin knows about them? Could he know what some of them are and where Riddle hid them?

“His what?” I confirm.

Malfoy elbows me. “You said that in English.”

Oh. I turn back to Slytherin to repeat myself, but the Founder is missing from his painting. Guess he doesn’t think we have a chance either.

“What did the great Salazar Slytherin say?” Slughorn asks, glancing between me and the portrait like one of us might suddenly attack him, but his curiosity is just managing to win out.

“He doesn’t like you,” I answer bluntly.

Malfoy chokes back a laugh. A couple of other Slytherins don’t quite manage to contain themselves. Dolohov outright snorts. Rabastan’s mouth twitches into a sort of smile that he quickly covers up. Snape and the first-year girls keep perfectly straight faces, though the mirth in their eyes says they’re laughing on the inside. Slughorn opens his mouth as if to take points, or give me detention, but then his eyes land on Belladonna’s tail peeking out from under my sleeve, and he hurries out of the Common Room.

“Thank Salazar,” Malfoy says.

I grin. “Literally.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I’m officially done with you for the day. Please cease to exist until at least breakfast tomorrow.”

“That’s not how that works, Draco.”

“It should.”

“Afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Malfoy huffs. “This wasn’t what I meant when I told Mother I wanted a brother at all.”

“Would you rather me be back with my Muggle aunt, uncle and cousin?”

“Please, if you still lived with that lot, you still would’ve ended up at Hogwarts.”

“If it were up to my uncle, I’d never be allowed out of that house.”

“Good thing he’s dealt with then.”

Not yet, but I might have time to visit Vernon Dursley over one of the summers and make sure he never succeeds at anything, much like he told me I wouldn’t while he beat and starved me. I won’t hurt him, not like Riddle did his Muggle relatives, but I need to make him suffer in some way. Petunia will be an easy fix. I’ll do all that I can to stop her from growing to hate my mum over the next seven years. If she doesn’t meet Vernon, then maybe she’ll just be a regular bitter person, rather than the shrieking monster she ended up. And maybe that means Dudley doesn’t get to exist in this timeline, but he has the other one, if it still exists, and if Voldemort doesn’t destroy the Muggle world without me there to face him.

*

Malfoy waits until Rabastan, Dolohov and Snape are asleep to yank me out my bed onto the floor between his bed and mine, throw up a silencing ward, and sneer at me. He’s lucky Belladonna is asleep on my pillow or he’d have an angry ball python trying to bite him. As it is, I only lower my wand because the sneer is nothing like the vicious ones that he used to send my way.

“Congratulations, Potter. You’ve landed yourself in a dorm full of Death Eaters.”

I frown. “But isn’t the whole point of being here to undermine Riddle’s power by stopping him from recruiting so many students out of Hogwarts?”

Malfoy stares at me like I’m being particularly stupid or naïve, or both. “You think you can stop Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov from being Death Eaters? The brother of Bellatrix’s betrothed and one of the most vicious duellers on either side of the war?”

“Wouldn’t that just make keeping them out of the war that much bigger of a blow to Riddle?”

“You Gryffindors and your ridiculous hope,” Malfoy despairs.

I grin, sharp like I’ve just conned Dudley into insulting himself. “But I’m a Slytherin now. The hat and I agreed on that this time around.”

“That just means you’re even more of a reckless lion than I first thought.”

“You really can’t accept that I’m in Slytherin, can you?”

Malfoy huffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure, Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about writing the Sorting Hat’s song, but ultimately, it was stopping me from getting on with that part of the chapter, so I skipped it.


	6. Might as well try Non-Verbals

**DRACO**

Potter absentmindedly taps his wand to his matchstick, transfiguring it into a perfect needle and back again, without so much as looking at the object. I at least look at the matchstick while transfiguring it to have emerald inlays, a silver body, a perfectly rounded eye, and a tip sharp enough to draw blood, or sew with I suppose. Professor McGonagall of course notices when two of her students are sitting utterly bored, and stalks towards us like the cat of her animagus form. She startles at the sight of my needle, and actually stumbles on air when she notices what Potter’s doing.

“Ten points to Slytherin,” she says.

That just has to get the attention of everyone in the room, including Potter, who grips his wand like he’s about to face a fight with Death Eaters. Thankfully, nobody notices that, too busy gaping like a bunch of children, which I suppose they really are.

Then, Pettigrew sets his desk on fire, and everyone’s attention turns to him. I roll my eyes and see if I can engrave minuscule runes into my needle to give it back its natural form’s ability to start fires. Potter watches my work completely enraptured, most probably because this is the first time that he’s seen a practical demonstration of runic work. I allow him to continue watching if only to keep his attention from straying elsewhere and somehow finding a dangerous mystery to solve in the middle of a first-year Transfiguration lesson.

I assume that’s how he and his lackeys ended up almost dying every year in the middle of a school.

Watching Potter flounder on seeing a young Remus Lupin was quite entertaining on entering the room. The idiot walked straight into a wall and is lucky he didn’t manage to knock himself out from the force. The class of Slytherins and Gryffindors naturally laughed at the sight. And I suppose the matter would have been closed, if not for the way Potter’s eyes narrowed in on the sight of a tiny Peter Pettigrew. Only the arrival of Professor McGonagall saved Pettigrew. I somehow doubt it would’ve been a mere hex Potter threw either.

The rat has been appropriately terrified of Potter since and scrambled to a desk on the complete opposite side of the room. Potter Sr and Black sat near him, neither willing to make eye contact with Potter, yet the latter perfectly happy to glare at me at any opportunity. I, of course, have been honouring Potter’s good point from the feast last night, and I have been acting cordial to the supposed Black Heir. And by cordial, I mean completely ignoring him in favour of attempting to focus on the trivial lesson.

That proves to be more difficult when Black is the next student to successfully transfigure the matchstick. The Gryffindor chooses to take full advantage of his free time, and instead of helping others around him, like Potter is now doing, Black strolls to the front of the room, pulls out a spare chair nearby us and sits in it backwards. I hold back a scoff at the sight and blatant rebellion against propriety. I’m sure Black believes himself so ‘cool’ for flaunting his disregard for his heritage. All he’s doing is making it that much harder to not hate him.

“Did you want something?” I ask, gracing Black with a passably polite tone, even if I pointedly keep my eyes fixed on my work.

“Just wondering how many times you used underage magic to get something like that on your first try,” Black says.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never broken the underage magic law,” I say. “Harry here on the other hand…”

“The first was a house elf, the second accidental magic, and the third was justified because of the dementors.”

“The dementors,” Black repeats, and the irony of Sirius Black underestimating the threat of dementors is hardly lost on me.

Potter shrugs, transfiguring his matchstick into a passable miniature dementor cloak, ominous swaying and all. “They’re my boggart.”

There are a number of reasons that Potter’s blunt honesty in this conversation might come back to haunt us, but at this point it would be more suspicious for him to lie. At this rate, the more honest we are, the less likely anyone will believe the truth about our pasts. I think I prefer baffling them with the truth than deceiving them through lies. It’s more fun that way.

“Did that Muggle cousin of yours ever thank you for saving his soul?” I ask Potter, glad that Mother gave me a proper explanation for why the Boy-Who-Lived was going on trial, rather than Father’s pitiful attempt at diverting my attention from the matter.

“I can’t remember honestly,” Potter says. “He was a bit shaken up at the time, understandably. My uncle was mad though. Aunt not so much. She at least knew what dementors were.”

That’s surprising. I wouldn’t have thought that a Muggle so unsuited to raising magical blood would remember the name of any creatures her sister may have mentioned.

“How long ago was this?” Black asks sceptically, no doubt thinking that we’re pranking him.

“Oh it would’ve been right when the toad first showed up,” Potter says. “So two years ago, I think.”

Black scoffs. “Yeah, right. You’re both having me on.”

Potter transfigures the miniature dementor cloak back into a matchstick. “Are we? Nobody’s charmed your hair bright pink while you were distracted. Seems like a waste of a good act then.”

I have to grant Potter this: watching Black fail to last ten seconds without checking if his hair actually has been charmed is definitely worth having to put up with his presence. The only thing that could’ve made it better would be changing Black’s tie colours to green and silver, but I’d rather have the Professors on my side in this time, so I refrain from the temptation. Another time, maybe, when there’s no chance of being accused of bullying. Perhaps I’ll wait for when Black inevitably messes up and angers Potter again like he did on the Express.

Potter Sr must finish the task, because Black happily trots off to the back of the classroom. I’m not sure why they seem to think that their whispering isn’t loud enough for the entire class to hear, but there’s every chance that they were dropped as children, repeatedly. I ignore them for the sake of my sanity and return to my task. Potter stays noticeably distracted. That is, he’s now absentmindedly turning his matchstick into a miniature dementor cloak and back again without looking. I hope Professor McGonagall finds the other side of the room utterly fascinating and has zero reason to come back this way, or she just might transform into a cat and end up halfway up the wall before she realises herself.

*

The rest of the day passes much like that first Transfiguration lesson and by the end of it, I could not be more bored if I had to sit through a NEWT History of Magic lesson. At least then there might be the chance that I actually learn something, even if it’s the billionth goblin name that I couldn’t care less for. I’m halfway to performing every single spell on the first-year curriculum in the middle of the Salazar damned Great Hall at this rate, and if I don’t have _something_ to challenge me soon, I might not make it to the end of the week before doing exactly that.

If it weren’t for the pent up energy, I’d just take to my dozens of unread books in my library trunk, but the idea of sitting still for another moment grates against my very soul. What I wouldn’t give for an old fashioned duel… Actually, that’s not a bad idea at all. While we’re at it, because of course I’ll be dragging Potter into this, we might as well try non-verbals. They’ll be essential to any serious duels in the future and have the extra boon of not being something that I’ve already mastered.

I grab Potter’s arm and tug him away from his stunted conversation with Rabastan Lestrange. “Come alone, Harry. I’ve decided that we’re going to get some practice in.”

“Talk to you later!” Potter calls before glaring at me. “Are you actually capable of asking what other people want?”

“Of course, I am. But I know you’ll want to practice non-verbal duelling with me in the Room of Requirement, so I skipped the asking step.”

Potter yanks his arm back but follows me nevertheless. “You could’ve waited until I was done talking to Lestrange first.”

“Oh, that was talking? I suppose a mix of strange expressions and awkward small talk could be classified as conversation, if you were a troll maybe.”

“I am so looking forward to wiping the floor with you.”

“Please, I’ve at least had experience in successfully casting non-verbals before. You on the other hand, aren’t the best at using you inside voice during spellcasting, let alone silently casting.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “You do realise that we were technically using non-verbals in all of our classes today, right? Neither of us actually said the spells.”

“Those were simple first-year spells. They’re hardly something you’re going to use in a real duel.”

“Are you _trying_ to make me mad at you?” Potter questions.

I’m not actually sure, but I’m hardly going to admit to that, so instead I give Potter a particularly good ‘isn’t it obvious’ look, so that he’ll take it whichever way he wants. I don’t actually mind either way. We reach the seventh floor soon enough. Conversation thankfully stops as I pace back and forth in front of the entrance. It’s only natural Potter concedes that I have more experience with this room. If he’d tried to argue otherwise, I just might’ve hexed him, outside of a duel or not.

“We could duel on brooms,” Potter suggests, as we step inside.

It’s not a terrible idea. But…

“I’d rather work up to that point. Once we have a decent arsenal of non-verbals, we’ll move onto high-altitude duelling.”

Potter shakes his head. “You don’t have to give it a fancy name.”

“What makes you think that it isn’t the appropriate term?” I ask.

Just because he’s right about me making it up, doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it that easily.

“Because the Wizarding World is terrible at naming things,” Potter answers. “And ‘high-altitude duelling’ makes too much sense.”

He’s not wrong. Sadly, isn’t something that can be changed by simply defeating Riddle. It grates on me that such a thing is complex in comparison to our primary goal here. Then again, if Wizarding Britain had more collective sense, a half-blood like Riddle never would’ve gained the type of power base he has now.

“I highly doubt that debating such a thing would increase our ability to cast non-verbal spells,” I say, as a rather good deflection if I do say so myself.

Potter looks like he disagrees, but thankfully drops it in favour of moving into a duelling stance. We bow to each other, and it begins.

Non-verbal or not, I’d be an idiot to miss the familiar wand movement of Potter’s Expelliarmus, so I cast a silent Protego to block it. Potter shrugs like he expected as much. I don’t make the mistake of casting Serpensortia against the Parselmouth again, though I do throw a stunner. Potter easily dodges it like he would a bludger and casts his own stunner back at me. For a split-second, I consider taking the hit and returning a vicious tickling hex for good measure. But then I feel the sheer power behind Potter’s spell and have to drop to the ground to avoid it. Non-verbals are meant to be weaker. Apparently, Potter didn’t catch that lesson.

“Merlin, Potter! Where have you been hiding all that power for the past six years?” I ask, following through on that tickling hex, even as I scramble to my feet.

“Various duels with Riddle, Death Eaters, and a pack of dementors,” Potter says, all while laughing through the tickling hex.

“Then why in Salazar’s name did you tackle me when you saw me casting an unknown spell?” I ask, dispelling the sticking charm Potter hit my shoes with.

“You’re not letting that go, are you?”

I cast a shrinking charm on his robes. “Not until you start thinking as a wizard on instinct.”

The fact that Potter abandons the robes instead of reversing the spell just serves my point further. He returns with another over-powered stunner that I know to dodge than to attempt to block.

“What if those robes had protective runes on them?” I ask. “You’d be throwing away another layer of defence because you thought like a Muggle instead of a wizard.”

Another stunner, one that I have to throw myself to the ground _and_ cast a strong Protego to avoid.

“If they had protective runes in them, then they wouldn’t have been affected by your spell,” Potter argues.

I throw three Freezing Charms at Potter, and he barely dodges them all. It at least gives me enough time to scramble back to my feet again.

“Runes can’t cover every spell choice. You should know that by now from how far you’ve gotten into my books,” I point out, casting an Accio on a pillow behind Potter that slams into the back of his head.

Potter apparently thinks that’s fair game for this devolve into a full-blown magical pillow fight because he levitates five pillows and sends them flying at me from different directions. I dodge, deflect, and freeze the pillows, only one managing to crash into my face. The former Gryffindor doubles over in laughter. I send all the pillows in the room at him while he’s distracted. Potter falls to the cushioned ground, covered in various pillows and laughing the entire time.

“I wish all duels ended like that,” he says.

I shift some of the pillows to better bury him. “Yes, I’m sure that defeating Riddle will be as simple as declaring a pillow fight.”

“Do you reckon he was ever in one? I bet the orphanage wouldn’t have had any, but maybe the Slytherin dorms did.”

“I can assure you that they didn’t.”

Potter shifts a pillow off his face. “Was that your first pillow fight, Malfoy?”

“It’s hardly a pureblood tradition, given its Muggle origins.”

“I’ve only had magical ones before. They were pretty regular when we were learning the summoning and banishing charm, especially because I needed the first mastered for the tournament.”

I shift the pillow back over Potter’s face. “It was a good non-verbal exercise in any case.”

“Just admit that you had fun.”

I nod in agreement only because Potter can’t see the movement. “We should head down to the Great Hall, else we’ll miss dinner.”

“My hair’s a mess,” Potter groans.

“Your hair’s always a mess,” I retort, casting a spell that’ll fix mine.

The pillows shoot back to their previous position, as Potter stands up.

“Reckon we can try that on brooms next time?” he asks.

I stride towards the door. “I’ll consider it.”

“You’re not actually in charge.”

He actually sounds like he believes that. One of us needs some hope for the future. It might as well be the former Gryffindor.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't tell me that practising summoning charms on pillows didn't devolve into a full-blown magical pillow fight at least once.


	7. We're not just copies of our fathers

**HARRY**

Belladonna has been irritable lately. She doesn’t like being ignored much, which I can understand and apologised to her for. I’ve been so caught up with practising non-verbals and the occasional wandless spell to stave off the boredom of the first year curriculum that I’ve been neglecting her these past few days. To make up for it, I’m doing my homework with Rabastan in the Slytherin Common Room and absentmindedly petting Belladonna while she plays with the feather of my quill. Rabastan is as quiet as ever, but he doesn’t seem to mind my occasional hissing, so I count that as a win.

I’m not sure where Malfoy’s gotten off to. He muttered something about finding my constant company stifling and marched out of the Common Room before I could think of a good enough retort. I don’t really blame him though. Having to make nice with someone that I used have a bitter rivalry with isn’t easy. I’m sure Malfoy would rather be here working with literally anyone else except maybe another Gryffindor, even if I’m technically a former lion. What’s more surprising is that he didn’t come back when Snape did. I’d have thought Malfoy would’ve ended up studying with him and Lily up in the library, as weird as it is that he’s been acting nice to a young version of my mum.

Rabastan sinks into his chair when his brother and Bellatrix enter the Common Room, laughing over how they’d scared some third-year Gryffindors who were trying to explore the dungeons.

I nudge Belladonna. _“Why don’t you say hello to the Quiet One?”_ I suggest, using her name for Rabastan.

Belladonna bares her tiny fangs at the quill feather one more time before slithering off my wrist and towards Rabastan’s frozen one. She twists through Rabastan’s fingers and hisses gently at him. Rabastan startles and looks from Belladonna to me.

“What’d she say?” he asks.

“Literally? Keep freezing like a rabbit and your nestmate will always get the first strike. I’m pretty sure it’s her way of showing concern. She’s told me to stop frowning or it’ll scare my prey away a few times.”

Rabastan’s lips twitch into a smile that looks involuntary.

“Thank you for your advice, Belladonna,” he says softly.

I translate and have to stifle a laugh when Belladonna crawls up Rabastan’s hand and settles around his wrist in her normal spot for me.

I really hope he doesn’t turn into a Death Eater. It’d suck to have to fight someone who started out this shy and fascinated with Belladonna. Hopefully, having a friend who doesn’t want to torture people for fun will keep Rabastan from taking the mark. I know his family won’t be so ready to let him stay out of it all, but I don’t think that means I should give up on him. Maybe Rabastan really does believe everything that his family does, but I have seven years to change his mind. It can’t be that hard.

_“Will you help me protect him, Little One?”_ I ask.

Belladonna pushes her head into Rabastan’s finger as he gently strokes her.

_“If I must,”_ she hisses, fooling nobody with her reluctance.

I return to my work with a smile. It last an entire fifteen seconds.

“Move out of my way, half-blood scum!”

It’s instinct to be standing with my wand in hand, pointed at the aggressor before I can even take in who I’m defending. A quick glance shows it’s Snape, but that doesn’t change me moving to a position between him and Lucius Malfoy.

“You don’t want to find out just how much I loathe bullies,” I warn Malfoy Sr.

The prefect laughs. “Do you even know how to use that?”

I give him a smile I learned off Belladonna. “Do you really want to know firsthand?”

Malfoy Sr rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to cast.

I hit him with a silent colour changing charm before he can get the first syllable of his spell out. The sheer shock on his face almost sends me into a fit of laughter. Almost. I can hear Rabastan stifling a giggle and a few other Slytherins with no such qualms though.

“Wow, Malfoy. The purple hair really suits you. Maybe you should keep it.”

Malfoy Sr spits a dark purple lock away from his face, his pure rage making him look more like a Black. “A childish spell,” he mutters.

“My brother tells me that my stunners are overpowered, so I figured I’d save you the humiliation of flying across the Common Room.”

“Do you really think you could beat me in a true duel, Black?” Malfoy Sr asks.

I think about it for a moment. “By the end of the year, probably. Right now, my duelling skills need some work. Draco could beat you though. He wouldn’t even have to use a single verbal spell.”

“While I appreciate your faith in me, brother, I must say that my verbal arsenal of spells would be much better suited.” Malfoy looks around the Common Room with air of a professor who’s just walked into a room with all his students playing exploding snap instead of working. “That said, I have no doubt that we could easily take him should we work together. Not that we will be doing such a thing anytime soon because I, unlike you, am not so prone to barging my way into trouble every second Tuesday.”

“He went after one of our dorm mates. Prefects are meant to protect the younger students, not target them.”

Malfoy glances at Snape who has buried himself into a book as far away from me and Malfoy Sr as possible. “Did Severus have the situation under control?” he asks.

“Yes,” Snape calls.

“No,” Rabastan says at the same time.

I point at Rabastan. “See?”

Malfoy sighs. “You have realised by now that this isn’t Gryffindor right?”

“The view of the lake instead of the grounds might’ve given it away,” I say. “And if it were Gryffindor, I would’ve hit him with a stunner and called for bets on how long until he woke up, or a prefect decided to have pity and cast Enervate on him.”

Once Hermione became prefect the bet changed to how long until she got distracted from her reading and realised that yet another of our housemates was sprawled unconscious on the floor. Fred made a game of positioning whichever poor bugger was the hour’s entertainment into more and more ridiculous poses. George could never last longer than two poses before joining in.

Malfoy gives me a look of utter disbelief. “Underage gambling is illegal.”

“Are you really going to try lecturing me on what is and isn’t legal, Draco? _You_?” I ask.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve broken far fewer laws than you have.”

I shrug. “Haven’t been arrested yet. Unless that time with the toad counts.”

“That was a sham and everyone involved knew it.”

Why hasn’t Malfoy Sr said anything lately? I look away from Malfoy and stifle a laugh. Malfoy Sr has taken to hiding in a shadowed corner of the Common Room, muttering what I assume are reversal spells under his breath. His hair is still purple. The scowling is only making the entire thing funnier.

“You’re ridiculous,” Malfoy says.

He strides away and drops into a chair next to Snape, probably to apologise for me ‘interfering’ because apparently, standing up for others isn’t the Slytherin way. I slump back into my chair next to Rabastan.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

I frown. “But you agreed that Snape didn’t have it handled.”

Rabastan glances up from his work. “You’ll be the next target.”

I can defend myself better than an actual first-year, but if I say that, I’ll just seem even more suspicious than goading a prefect.

“I don’t see how that’s a problem,” I say.

“You will.”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t my most well thought out moment.

“You still laughed,” I whisper.

Rabastan shrinks into his seat. “Did anyone else notice?”

“They were probably too busy staring at Malfoy’s hair,” I assure him.

“I’m going to be targeted if I stay friends with you,” he mutters under his breath.

I don’t think I was meant to hear him, but the fact that Rabastan doesn’t get up and leave, Belladonna wrapped around his wrist or not, makes me smile. Not only does he already think me a friend, but he wants to stay friends despite the risk that comes with it. That just means I’ll have to look out for Rabastan the best that I can from now on. It’s the least I can do for my first official friend of this time. Belladonna doesn’t count.

*

Dudley and his friends were the first ones to teach me how to notice when someone is following me. Entering a world where I was suddenly famous only added to that. But it was during second, fourth, and fifth year, where I was the school pariah, that I practically perfected the act, with or without access to the Marauders’ Map. The point is, even though Belladonna is exploring the castle by herself right now, there’s a snake following me. Well, a Slytherin. And probably the same one that I hexed earlier today.

Does a colour-changing charm count as a hex? I’ll have to ask Malfoy.

The spell to the back isn’t surprising. Losing grip of my wand is. Rodolphus Lestrange stalks around the corner, wand in hand. He grins like a shark at the person behind me, most probably Malfoy Sr, and leans against the wall to keep an eye out. This isn’t going to be fun. I really should know better than to wander the halls at night without anyone to watch my back.

I open my mouth to say something that’s bound to get me hexed again, but no sound comes out. Great. Silencio on top of whatever spell knocked me over. There are too many to choose from to know for sure, and these two are bound to use something dark that does basically the same thing, if only because it makes them feel stronger. At least that’s what I’ve seen from my past encounters with Death Eaters. Are these two even Marked yet? Apparently, Riddle didn’t Mark anyone underage in this time, but that could’ve easily been a lie.

Either way, they’re bullying prats, and I’ll never stand for that.

“Did you really think you could get away with embarrassing me like that?” Malfoy Sr asks.

I’d point out that he’s barely intimidating, but I can’t reach my wand to break the silencing spell. I doubt I could manage a non-verbal _and_ wandless finite.

“You’re nothing but a half-blood first-year with a tenuous connection to the Black name. No doubt your father was a Blood Traitor, and you’re too ashamed to admit it,” Malfoy Sr says.

I pretend to flinch, but really I just edge closer to my wand. It’s a ploy that’s worked on Dudley and his friends before, and, considering Malfoy Sr’s self-satisfied grin, it works on him too. Lestrange, on the other hand, studies me intently. I’m not sure how much he cares about being here, and what it’d take for him to walk away versus what sort of thing he wouldn’t stand for. I can’t risk pissing him off too much, unless I want him to take it out on his brother. I’ve only just sworn to protect Rabastan. I can’t go back on it, especially not so soon.

“ _Accio wand_ ,” Lestrange casts, yanking my wand away right as my fingertips brush it. “You have five minutes, Lucius.”

It’s probably a good thing that Malfoy Sr’s first spell knocks me out.

*

What does it say about me that I recognise a bed in the Hospital Wing better than I ever recognised the bed I had at the Dursleys’? I’m sure Hermione would’ve been happy to explain how I never thought of the Dursley bed as my own because of the years living in a cupboard thing, but she isn’t here to say that or complain about me ending up in this particular bed so soon in the school year. Ron would probably just be annoyed that I got knocked out so quickly in a fight against a Malfoy, never mind that I didn’t have my wand thanks to Lestrange stealing it.

Oh, great.

“I don’t have a wand,” I realise. “First week, and I don’t have a bloody wand.”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?” an irritatingly familiar voice asks. “Of course, they didn’t keep your wand, you idiot. That would’ve just led the professors to whoever attacked you, not that everyone in Slytherin doesn’t already know considering your little stunt yesterday.”

“Overnight stay then?” I ask, opening my eyes and reaching for my glasses.

“Unbelievable,” Malfoy mutters, slamming my glasses into my hand. “Is it actually possible for you to not get yourself into trouble, or am I cursed to have to visit you constantly in the Hospital Wing?”

I’m pretty sure that’s his way of saying that he was worried, but I’m not certain. There’s every chance that Malfoy really is annoyed at being inconvenienced or for me somehow sabotaging all of his plans just because I refuse to make nice with bullies. Maybe befriending potential Death Eaters isn’t good enough in the Draco Malfoy Standard. I don’t want to ask, if only because bringing it up might confirm that he really couldn’t care less about what happens to me outside of his mission. It’d suck if the only person here who actually knows me hates my guts.

Malfoy tosses me my wand. “You’re lucky that they didn’t give you a chance to fight back. I don’t want to even think about what kind of mess you would’ve created if you had.”

I cast a quick _Lumos_ to check that my wand isn’t annoyed at being stolen, however temporary it was. It only hesitates a spilt-second before shining brighter than ever. I _Nox_ it and tune back into what my ‘brother’ is ranting about.

“It was your new best friend Rabastan who came to me after your midnight rendezvous with his brother and my father. I didn’t believe him at first, which was completely fair considering there was every chance he was in on it, and–”

“Uh, Draco, should you really be calling him your father where anyone could listen in?” I ask.

Malfoy glares at me. “I threw up the anti-eavesdropper spell when you woke up, obviously. But even if I hadn’t, why in Merlin’s name would you draw attention to my slip? I cannot believe that you got sorted into Slytherin properly. You didn’t threaten the hat, did you? Because I really might demand you get resorted if you did.”

“I didn’t threaten the hat,” I say. “I’m not your mum.”

“She’d never do something as ridiculous as your little stunt. Any of the times she’s avenged someone, it’s been completely untraceable. Mother’s rather brilliant like that. You, on the other hand, are utterly irresponsible and are just asking to get yourself killed. I swear, the hardest part of this little mission is going to be keeping you alive, isn’t it? All because you couldn’t stop yourself from protecting Severus. You don’t even like him!”

“I don’t like the man he became,” I say. “The boy who’s my mum’s best friend is alright.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Alright? You would say that. Next thing I know, you’re going to be saying you don’t resent me even the tiniest bit for not having your back when you were attacked.”

I frown. “But I don’t. I didn’t even think about that. Is that why you’re so angry? Because I already know that I messed up, so I don’t really know why you keeping telling me that. I figured that you finally cracked on pretending to tolerate me.”

“I am so _angry_ ,” Malfoy spits, “because I was exactly like him. I used to parade around here like I owned the place and ganged up on anyone who dared say otherwise. Do you know how many people I sent here either directly or through Vincent and Gregory? Because I don’t. I didn’t care enough to keep track. And I still don’t. Not really. Even if I wanted to, I can’t make myself care. And what does that make me? Exactly like _him_.”

“We’re not just copies of our fathers, Malfoy,” I remind him. “You’re the one who told me that.”

He scoffs. “You think repeating my words back at me will turn you into a Slytherin then? Nice try, but your manipulating could use some work.”

I take a deep breath and try not to hex him.

“You know, I used to get angry at my friends all the time after they made a good point that I didn’t want to face,” I say.

Malfoy launches out of his chair and scowls at me. “We’re not friends, Potter!”

He storms off before I can point out that he was the one who told me that we were basically family. Whatever. I was only trying to help the git. It’s not my fault if he won’t listen to bloody reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. This chapter did not want to cooperate. At all. The other chapters were happy to have massive word counts, and they had more of the problem that they never wanted to end. This one though, it let me write some parts easily, sure, but the rest was being difficult like I’d committed the most terrible wrong and started some great blood feud between our families. Fanfic chapters don’t even have families. Point is, sorry for taking ages to get this chapter done. Maybe the next one will be more cooperative. Probably not. At least I have a fair amount of Chapter 9 already written.


	8. Finding a new normal

**DRACO**

Potter is an idiot. Thinking we’re friends just because we were forced to work together. Sure, it might be nice if we actually were on friendlier terms, but I don’t believe for a second that this isn’t just Potter getting confused by the act. We have to be in each other’s presence constantly to keep up the lie that we’re close brothers. That’s all. If it weren’t for that lie, I’m sure that Potter wouldn’t have tolerated my presence for the past few weeks considering that I still haven’t apologised for my little outburst in the Hospital Wing. Not that I should have to say sorry.

Malfoys don’t apologise.

But I’m not a Malfoy. I chose to not be a Malfoy. I’m a Black, my mother’s son, and certainly not anything like Lucius. Except that I’m just like him, and even more so than I had ever realised. Morgana and Mordred, why can’t things be simple? I wish I could go around hexing my not-father in the middle of the Common Room without a care for consequence, but that’s just not how the world works. Potter’s trip to the Hospital Wing proved that. And if he can’t get away with such ridiculous behaviour then why in Merlin’s name would I be able to?

It’s bad enough that the idiot has gotten comfortable around the younger Lestrange, as if he can actually trust the first-year. I’ve no doubt that Potter thinks Rabastan his friend, never mind that a friendship with such a lion in snake’s clothing would only ever hurt the Slytherin. There has to be something that Lestrange is working towards. I remember stories about the man he became well enough, and he was hardly the type to go against his family’s wishes. But what’s the point in trying to tell Potter that when he’s just as reckless as ever?

As it is, the best I can do is avoid the former Gryffindor whenever I can without being too obvious to others that I’m avoiding him. If that means writing essays in the library with Severus and Evans, then so be it. It’s still strange to be around a younger version of my godfather, but Evans is surprisingly tolerable given that she doesn’t try to force unnecessary conversation on me. Severus gets to be the victim of that. The only times that I’m left alone with the Gryffindor are when Severus searches the shelves for a better reference text. Thankfully, Evans tends to continue her work silently on those occasions.

Sadly, this is not one of them.

“You’re fighting with your brother, aren’t you?” Evans asks.

I scoff. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s walking around with the exact same expression Tuney gets when we’re mad at each other.”

I’m sure Potter would _love_ the fact that he resembles that aunt of his. Hopefully, Evans won’t think about just how much they look like each other once you strip away the obvious Potter-ness.

“I won’t ask who’s at fault,” Evans says. “Only because most times it’s both, especially when siblings are involved.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “What do you suggest I do then? To make him at least go back to the way he was before?”

Evans thinks about it for a moment, the question probably too much for her eleven-year-old mind. “Maybe you can’t,” she says quietly.

“Because that’s helpful.”

“Well, me and Tuney have been fighting since I met Sev. I think she might be upset that I have magic when she doesn’t. I know why she’s so mad, but I can’t convince her that nothing’s going to change even though I’m on a different path to her now. I’ve been trying so hard to make her understand that I didn’t realise that things have already changed, and they’re not going to go back no matter how hard I try. So maybe instead of trying to force things back to the old normal, I need to work with her to find our new normal. Either way, pretending that nothing’s changed is only going to hurt both of us.”

I gape at the Gryffindor. “That was surprisingly insightful.”

“Thanks, Draco.”

“I didn’t say you could call me that.”

Evans shrugs. “There are too many people with the name Black here. It’s easier for everyone if we just used first names for your family.”

“Fine, but I’m still calling you Evans.”

“Okay.”

I narrow my eyes at her, but she just smiles and returns to her work. I’m starting to see why Potter is so irritating if this is the girl who becomes his mother. Severus returns soon enough and doesn’t comment on my obvious annoyance and Evans’s satisfied smile. Clearly, I shouldn’t count on his help should Evans ever decide to attack me. Not that I would need anyone’s help to defeat a first-year, but the point stands. This boy isn’t my godfather, no matter how tolerable him and his poor choice in friend are.

*

“I’m sorry,” I say, while sitting next to Potter at dinner.

He jerks away from his hissed conversation with Belladonna. “What was that?” he asks.

“Your blood relatives are irritating,” I say.

“Which ones?” Potter asks, thankfully letting the apology drop.

“Maternal side.”

Potter smiles. It’s the exact same smile Evans gave me earlier. I almost flinch. Almost. He returns to his food without another word and waits until I have a mouthful of roast beef before talking.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”

Malfoys don’t choke on their food when surprised. But I’m not a Malfoy.

“You look like your aunt when you’re angry,” I say.

Potter chokes on his food too. Don’t let it be said that I’m not my mother’s son. Revenge is a Black family tradition after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but if it were any longer, I’d feel like I was drawing it out for the sake of word count, and I don’t want to do that.

**Author's Note:**

> Because of the expected length of this fic, I’ll be adding tags as they become relevant with each chapter. I’ll try to keep any serious spoilers from the tags, but if you see one that you think gives too much away feel free to comment as much.


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